A Timely Intervention
by Polgana
Summary: Gary picks up the pieces after Timed Out and tries to get his life back together, which isn't easy with someone trying to kill him! Third in series. Many thanks to Vicky Jo for her invaluable inspiration and assistance.
1. Looking Forward

A TIMELY INTERVENTION  
By Polgana with Kyla  
  
This is the sequel to Timed Out, which both take place in the time line before Kindred Spirits. In this, Gary picks up the pieces and gets his life back together. Or tries to, anyway. Nothing ever seems to go as smoothly as he hopes.  
  
There is, as before, some violence, strong language, but I don't like the vulgar stuff, so I don't use it. Other than that, teenagers should have no more problem with this than the adults.  
  
Disclaimer: While I have inserted one or two original characters in here, the majority of them belong to the creators of: Early Edition, Touched By An Angel, ER, Stargate SG1, Diagnosis: Murder . . . Hmmm, I think that's everyone. I may have gotten a little carried away here.  
*****  
  
Excerpt from 'Timed Out'  
  
Gary looked up into the face that he expected to belong to Captain Bailey, a pilot with the airline he had just used to fly back home to Chicago. Instead, he found himself staring into the smiling face and hazel eyes of the enigmatic man he had come to know as Andrew. The sandy haired man was holding out a pair of wooden crutches, the name and emblem of Hickory General Hospital clearly emblazoned down each side. Stunned, Gary recognized them as the same pair that had followed him on his trip back in time. The very same pair that he had used to foil Marley's attempt to kill and discredit Lucius Snow during that fateful day in Dallas, in 1963.  
  
Dazed, Gary had no idea, at first, what Andrew expected him to do with them. Then a slow smile spread across his weary features, as he understood. Reaching down, he quickly engaged the brakes on his wheelchair. He then grasped each leg, one at a time, and moved his feet off the pedals before flipping them out of his way. With the aid of his mom and best friend Chuck, he pushed himself to his feet and positioned the props under his arms. Mindful of his dad and several of his friends, especially Marissa, standing less then ten feet away, he concentrated on his right leg. At first, it seemed as if nothing was going to happen. Taking his lower lip between his even white teeth, Gary poured all his will into the simple act of moving that one foot just a few inches. Sweat beaded his brow as he felt that leg tremble slightly. Then, to his overwhelming joy and relief, it slowly inched forward!   
  
Almost dizzy with a sense of elation, Gary nonetheless kept his mind focused on his Herculean task. His job was only half done. Keeping most of his weight on the crutches, he began to slide the left foot forward with just as much effort as it had taken for the right. It hurt! Oh, God, it hurt! Muscles that had only recently relearned to move of their own accord protested at being forced to exert themselves. Knees that had not had to bear weight for more than seven months threatened to buckle as he forced them to support him for just two more awkward steps!  
  
Exhausted, Gary allowed his father and Zeke Crumb to help him sit, or rather collapse, back into the chair that his mother had slid behind his trembling legs. As he tried to catch his breath, he was almost knocked backwards by Marissa's exuberant embrace. Gasping and laughing, he hugged her back with equal enthusiasm. It was only then that he became aware of the crowd of reporters with video cameras aimed his way. Miguel Diaz was there, too, snapping away with his 35mm camera. For once, Gary didn't care. This had nothing to do with the paper. This was entirely personal.  
  
"Mr. Hobson, how does it feel to know you will walk again?" one woman asked, shoving a microphone in his face.  
  
"Wwwon-der-fful," Gary replied, unable to suppress a face splitting grin. "G-good tto mmbe . . . hhhome . . . ttoo."  
  
His stammering speech startled the news crews for a moment, causing them to pause in their barrage of questions. It was a brief lapse, but significant to Gary as he caught a look of pity flash across the woman's face. His smile became strained as he ducked his head to hide his obvious embarrassment. The worst, though, was the shocked look on his dad's face. His father looked as if he had just been shot. After that he let his mother and Chuck field all the questions, refusing to speak anymore. A few minutes later, the pack of reporters was distracted by the arrival of the dignitary they had been there to interview in the first place. It was at this point that Gary and his party took the opportunity to make their escape.  
  
***************  
  
Even the impromptu 'surprise party' at McGinty's couldn't perk up Gary's dampened spirits. He had been so . . . elated to be able to take those few faltering steps. That moment had been the best thing he had experienced since the accident last May. 'So, why did I have to go and screw it up by opening my big mouth?' he groaned inwardly.  
  
Everyone was talking about the scene at the airport. The ones who were there painted the event in glowing detail for those who had yet to see the newscast, which would not air until later that morning. His dad was especially ebullient in his descriptions, feigning the looks of astonishment on the reporters' faces. Even Armstrong cracked a smile as Bernie related the expression on Gary's face as that right foot slid forward. Marissa was telling how she felt as Armstrong had told her, in excruciating detail, what Gary was attempting at the airport.  
  
In fact the only one not practically glowing with joy, other than Gary himself, was Toni Brigatti. She mostly stood off to one side, watching the young barkeeper as everyone crowded around him, showering him with unwanted attention. She wondered if he still held any animosity towards her for that night at her place. The night when she had 'seduced' him while he was sick, injured, and only semiconscious from the medication he was on. Their confrontation the next morning had been a disaster. Instead of coming to any kind of understanding, they had been driven even further apart by her sharp tongue and that damned chip on her shoulder! As she watched him now, she could only wonder if they had any hope for a future together at all.   
  
Feeling dejected, Gary nonetheless put on a pleasant front for his employees and friends before giving his mom a pleading look and a nod toward the office door. Lois made their excuses and led the way up to his loft. Once there, he wordlessly helped his mother put away his things. As she hung his jacket in the wardrobe, he looked around at the once familiar room that now seemed so . . . alien. While he had been recovering from that first devastating fall, Stan Kovaleski, the contractor he had once saved from an explosion, had come in and remodeled everything to make it more accessible for him. There was even a set of parallel bars near the wall opposite the bed.   
  
Gary found himself drawn towards the bathroom. He paused in the open doorway, recalling all too vividly the last time he had been in that room. Closing his eyes briefly, he waited for the flashback to hit. It wasn't long in coming. Once more he could feel the bubbling water against his skin, see the warped reflection in the chrome of the handrail. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the fingers of Savalas' hand twist themselves into his hair, felt the water closing in over his head as he was forced beneath the surface. Gary relived the shame and terror of finding himself sprawled facedown on the tile floor, naked and shivering, gasping for air.  
  
As she put the last of Gary's jeans on a hanger, Lois became concerned by his continued silence. She knew he had been deeply shaken by those reporters reaction to his stutter. It couldn't have come at a worse time, either. He had been soaring with the boost to his self-confidence those four hesitant steps had given him, only to come crashing down when he couldn't answer that woman's question without stammering. He hadn't said a word since, not even when they were 'safely' back home. Whenever someone asked him anything, when they had been downstairs, he had merely smiled and nodded, or shook his head. It was only when she had noticed how tired he looked, and had mentioned it aloud, that he had nodded with a relieved sigh and followed her upstairs. Even now, when they were alone, he had yet to make a sound.  
  
Concerned, Lois turned to see Gary with his wheelchair half in and half out of the bathroom door, hands tightly gripping the armrests as he stared into nothingness . . . and his memories. He didn't need to say anything. She could see everything he was feeling, everything he was thinking in the play of emotions crossing his expressive features. Gary was one of those people who, try as he might, could not hide what he felt. Deceit was just not in his nature. It was something he had been forced to learn in his dealings with the paper, but he had never been comfortable with lying.  
  
"Are you okay, hon?" she asked as she eased up behind him. "You've been awfully quiet since we've been home."  
  
"Dddon' . . . ffffeel lllike . . . ttttal . . . k-king," he mumbled haltingly. "T-tired."  
  
Lois slipped her arms around her son, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You have to keep trying, sweetie," she murmured into his ear. "I know it'll be hard, but you'll never accomplish anything by giving up."  
  
Gary reached up with a sigh and pulled her arms around him just a little tighter, tilting his head far enough to plant a kiss on her wrist. "I knnnow," he sighed. "Mmbut nnnot . . . sssp-peak pppu-mmblic. Ppprrrivv-ate . . . ooonn-lly."  
  
"As long as you keep trying, Gary," Lois replied. "I'll call Dr. Zimmerman in the morning. Maybe he can recommend a good speech therapist." She gave him a gentle squeeze before straightening up. "Oh! And we need to call Diane, too. She needs to set up a schedule for you. Your father and I can help with the paper until you're back on your feet. Literally."  
  
Easing his chair back into the room, Gary pivoted to face his mother. "Sssss'oo-kkay," he said. "Nndon' hhave . . . ttto. Yyyoou nnneed . . . gggett hhhomme."  
  
Lois paused in the midst of hanging up Gary's jacket. "Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you," she murmured. "We're not going back to Hickory." She turned to meet her son's puzzled gaze. "Well, after the way they practically ran you out of town on a rail, I couldn't possibly live there anymore! So, we've put the house on the market, and we're looking for a place closer to the city. In the suburbs, maybe."  
  
Gary was stunned. He knew his parents had been upset by the way his hometown had, more or less, turned their collective backs on him, but to the extent of selling the house? Of leaving behind the town where he had been born? They were actually going to sell the house he had grown up in? How could they? Then he tried to look at it from their point of view. Would he want to stay someplace where his child was unwelcome? How would he feel if his son or daughter had been treated with the same kind of intolerance and suspicion that he had endured? He recalled how hurt and embarrassed he had been by all the whispered innuendo, and baseless accusations. Could it have been any less painful for his parents?  
  
Wordlessly, he rolled his chair up to his mother and wrapped his arms around her waist. Lois knelt down until she could return his embrace, pressing his face against her shoulder.  
  
"Ssssor-ry, Mmmomma," he murmured. "Aahm sssoo . . . sssor-ry."  
  
"Whatever for, sweetie?" Lois crooned. "It wasn't your fault. I guess it wasn't anyone's fault, really. They just don't understand you anymore, if they ever did. That's no excuse for the way they treated you though. Especially at Christmas. No one should be made to feel like an outcast at Christmas."  
  
"Lllove yyyou, Mmmomma," Gary sighed.  
  
"I love you too, dear. Now, let's go back downstairs for a bit. It's almost time for the morning news. I want to see if we're on it."  
  
Recalling the look of shock and pity on the reporters' faces, Gary shook his head as he released his hold. "Yyyoou gggo," he told her. "Nndon' wwwant ttto sssee."  
  
Sitting back on her heels, Lois looked up into her son's despondent features. "What's wrong, hon? Don't you want to see your 'triumphant' return to Chicago?"  
  
"Nnnot ssso tttrri-umm-pphhant," Gary stammered, looking away. "Dddon' wwwann' . . . ssseee fffac-ess wwhhenn . . . hheear . . . sssp-eakk.."  
  
"Oh dear," Lois sighed, understanding at last. "You're embarrassed. You think they'll look down on you for stuttering."  
  
"Wwwoorse," Gary replied with a shake of his head. "Ttthhhey . . . fffeeell . . . sssor-ry fffoorr mmee. Dddonn' wwann' sssor-ry. Wwwan' mmbbe llefft . . . 'lllone."  
  
"What are you going to do?" Lois asked, starting to get worried. "Are you going to hide up here in your room until the problem goes away?"  
  
"Iiifff hhavve tttoo," Gary replied stubbornly.   
  
'Oh, dear!' Lois thought. 'This is not good!' Her only son was in real danger of becoming a hermit. "That's not going to work, Gary, and you know it," she told him firmly. "You have to face this. No problem ever gets solved by hiding from it. Now, get ready. You're going back downstairs to talk to your staff and your friends."  
  
Stubbornly, Gary shook his head. No way could he face everyone after they heard his poor excuse for speech!   
  
"That's not a request, mister," Lois told him. She stood in front of him with her arms crossed, her stance radiating a stubbornness equal to his own. "You are coming down to the bar with me. You will let your staff, and your friends, know what is going on. They can't help you otherwise. You will do all this right now. Understand?"  
  
The look Gary gave her almost broke her heart. He looked like a trapped animal, scared and alone. It was almost enough to weaken her resolve. Almost. She returned his gaze with a level one of her own.  
  
"I'm serious, Gary," she told him in a 'no nonsense' tone. "I didn't raise you to be a quitter or a coward. Just because what you have to do looks impossible is no excuse not to try. You deal with the impossible everyday. Don't back down now. Not when you're so close."  
  
With a sigh, Gary nodded. He had never won an argument with his mom, especially when she was right. It didn't look as if he were going to start now. She was determined that he would not hide from this, no matter how much the idea appealed to him.  
  
*************  
  
Everyone sat in stunned silence, having just seen one of the newscasts covering the scene at the airport. Bernie and Crumb exchanged glances. They then stood to face the speechless group.  
  
"Okay," Bernie sighed. "Let's get this out before he comes back down. C'mon, I know you all have some kinda smart remark you can't wait to try out. Do it now, and get it over with."  
  
"Why can't he talk straight?" Robin asked, a worried frown on her pretty features.  
  
"A left over side-effect of the snake venom," Bernie told them, having learned everything from Lois and Chuck on the way home. "It's gonna take a little time, and therapy, but he can get past this with our help. Who's next?"  
  
"He's walking again," Jimmy, one of the bartenders, commented with a big smile on his face. "That's the main thing. I mean, he's always stuttered when he's nervous. This is just, well, like he's really nervous."  
  
"Exactly!" Crumb spoke up. "Remember that. This speech thing, it's temporary. He'll be barking orders and making our lives miserable in no time. Just don't even act like you feel sorry for the guy. He hates that. He wants your help, not your pity. Just the same as when it was his legs that didn't work. So let me spell this out for youse guys. Act like it's no big deal, just another day in the life of Gary Hobson. He feels bad enough about this little set back. Don't make him feel any worse, or you'll answer to me."  
  
"And me," Bernie added, determined not to be left out. Anything else he might have said was put on hold by the distinctive sound of the chairlift in operation. "He's on his way down," Bernie hissed. "Just act natural. And remember, don't even look like you feel sorry for him. He'll pick up on that right away."  
  
"Remember this, too," Chuck spoke up from his seat at the bar. "Gary's lucky to be alive and talking at all. He came within an ace of being a vegetable. Just the fact that he's breathing is more of a miracle than we had any right to hope for."  
  
By the time Gary and Lois returned to the barroom, the channel on the TV over the main bar had been changed to a later newscast. Everyone was watching the scene as if for the first time. Gary knew better, and was genuinely touched by their blatant attempt at deception. He sat back and watched the faces of his friends and employees. No, scratch that. They were all his friends. As he observed them going through the motions of their little pretense, he knew that, however rough this next challenge would be, he was not going through it alone. Gary looked up to meet his mom's glimmering eyes, and knew that she understood what was going through his mind. He was going to be okay.  
  
As the newscast ended, shortly after his stammering statement, everyone started talking about how wonderful it was to see 'the boss' on his feet again. No one said anything about his stutter, or his obvious embarrassment at the reporters' reaction. They were all pretending not to have noticed, chattering to each other about the news report, without one word about this new setback.  
  
Gary rolled his wheelchair towards the center of the room and made a loud throat-clearing sound. All eyes turned on him, everyone feigning various looks of surprise and embarrassment. Robin even managed a convincing blush.  
  
"Nnnice . . . tttrry, ggguys," he told them, a shy smile breaking through on his tired features. "Ttthhankks. Nnndon' hhaff tttoo pprre-ttend. Jjjuss' dddon' lllafff tttoo . . . llloud."  
  
"No one's laughing, Gary," Marissa told him, stepping forward in the sudden silence. "We all know how serious this is for you. Just don't let your pride make you forget that you have friends that want to help you, even if we drive you crazy sometimes."  
  
"Nnnott ddrrivve," Gary stammered, smiling a little as he attempted an old joke. "Ssshhorrt pputtt."  
  
"Oh, kiddo," Bernie groaned. "That was lame, even for you!"  
  
"Well, what do expect?" Lois snorted daintily. "Bob Hope? He's only been out of the hospital a little over a day! Let the man get his breath!" She reached out and playfully ruffled Gary's hair as she said this, earning an exasperated grin from her son.   
  
"Sure thing, Mrs. H," Jimmy spoke up as he nervously wiped spots off a glass that he had already cleaned twice. "You just give the orders, Boss," he added, "and let us make the speeches. You know how we all love to hear ourselves talk."  
  
"Especially you," Crumb quipped. He then turned to Gary. "I've gotta run. Some guy thinks his partner is pulling something shady. You take care, kid. Oh! I almost forgot. We need to talk as soon as you're walkin' a little better. I got this . . . project . . . I need your help with."  
  
Crumb sounded so . . . hesitant, that Gary was instantly put on his guard. "Wwwhhatt aarrre yyyou uuupp . . . ttoo, Cccrrummb?"  
  
"Nothin' ya haven't done before, so stop worryin'," the ex-cop snorted. "Take care of yerself, Hobson." With that, he gave Gary's shoulder a rough shake and headed out of the bar.  
  
Gary watched his friend go, wondering what the gruff detective had in mind. Suddenly feeling very tired, he barely had time to cover his mouth before failing to suppress a deep yawn. Lois flashed him a brief smile before making his excuses for him and turning his chair back towards the office.   
  
"You didn't get much sleep on the plane, did you dear?" Lois commented as she navigated the chair through the office and to the back stairwell.  
  
Gary just shook his head wearily. He had tried, stretching out in the first-class lounge for most of the flight, but had been too tense with anticipation at being home again. Also, that little scene at the airport had taken a lot out of him too. Truthfully, he was happy to let his mother do the driving . . . just this once. She soon had him upstairs and was helping him get ready for bed.   
  
"I-I ccan nnddo zzzis, Mmmomma," he stammered in a half-hearted protest. "Yyyou tttirred tttoo. Gggett ssoomme rrressst."  
  
"I will, sweetie," Lois told him with a smile as she tugged at one of his shoes. "I got plenty of rest on the plane, though. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty, maybe?"  
  
"Aah'm fffinne, Mmmomma," he smiled, stretching out with a tired sigh. "Jjjuss' nnneedd rrresst. Wwwake mmee 'ow-er . . . tttwo?"  
  
"Sure, hon," she replied with a smile, all the while thinking that he needed a lot more than that. "How about in time for lunch? That'll give you, oh, four hours," she added, glancing at the clock.  
  
"Ssoun's ggood," Gary mumbled drowsily. A moment later, he was making soft snoring sounds, having drifted off to sleep almost instantly. He hadn't even gotten as far as getting his pants off.  
  
Lois lifted his legs onto the bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin. She stood there a moment, watching him. It had always amazed her that she had given birth to this handsome young man, but lately she was amazed, and overjoyed, that he was still alive. Lois picked up a magazine she had bought for the flight and settled onto the sofa, planning on keeping watch over her sleeping son in case he needed her. She must have been more tired than she had thought because she soon found her own eyes growing heavy. Moments later, mother and son were both sound asleep.  
  
*******************  
  
Lois wasn't sure what had awakened her, at first. She sat up abruptly, aware only of a vague feeling of uneasiness. Something had pulled her out of a sound sleep, not to mention a beautiful dream of a yard full of grandchildren. Wiping the sleep from her bleary eyes, she looked around for the source of the disturbance. Mumbling and groaning noises from the bed had her on her feet in an instant. Gary! She quickly stepped over to see what was happening to her poor baby this time.   
  
The young bar owner was tossing his head from side to side fitfully, his hands making warding off gestures as his legs twitched feebly under the covers. Animal-like moans and whimpering emanated from his throat, but nothing close to coherent speech. Lois reached out hesitantly to wake him, only to jerk back as he gave out a loud, shuddering, sigh. His eyes fluttered for a moment, as if he were about to wake up. Instead he turned onto his right side and settled deeper into the mattress, hugging his left arm against his chest protectively. For a few seconds, Gary seemed to be sleeping peacefully. It was only a moment's respite, however, as his youthful features were soon twisted into an expression of pain. And fear? What was he dreaming about?  
  
***************  
  
Running. He was running down dark, deserted streets. No. Not deserted. A nameless, faceless pursuer was hot on his heels! Dark, anonymous figures loomed from out of nowhere to block his path only to fall back with fingers pointing accusingly. 'Murderer!' they silently screamed as he ran past. 'Killer! You let them die! It's your fault!'  
  
"Nnno," Gary stammered, pleading for understanding. "I ttried! I d-did! I-I'm nnnot Gggod! Cccan't ssave e-ev'ry . . . b-bo-dy."  
  
Gary was once more chained to that damned chair! His left arm throbbed painfully as Savalas gave a vicious yank on the handcuffs. They were in the area next to the bed, but there was no bowling pin peeking out from under the bed this time. There was nothing at all to defend himself with as the felon pulled a piece of rope from a drawer and pulled Gary's right arm around until it, too, was bound to the chair frame. Both arms were now stretched painfully around the back of the wheelchair, totally immobilized. He looked up into Savalas' evil smirk, meeting that amused gaze with a steady, defiant glare.  
  
"Y-you're dddead, Ssa-vvall-uss," Gary stammered through clenched teeth. "I fffelt y-you ddie."  
  
"And you will again," the specter of Savalas replied with a patronizing smile. "Over and over again. That's the beauty of it! You get to watch me die every time you close your eyes! Isn't that wonderful? And I get to come up with new and better ways to torment you! Like this."  
  
Suddenly Gary's left arm was stretched painfully across a narrow table, held in place by those cursed handcuffs. His arm was twisted into an awkward position, straight out from his shoulder and palm up. Before he could form a protest, his tormentor brought his own hockey stick down on his wrist in a savage blow! The pain was incredible! Unable to get in enough breath to scream, Gary could only hang his head and ride out the wave of agony that shot up his arm! The only sound that escaped his lips was a long, shuddering, sigh.   
  
He was lying at the top of the bluff, the deadly rattler less than a foot away. Gary didn't care. He rolled onto his right side, cradling his injured wrist against his chest. The pain was so intense it blocked out almost every other sensation. Gary knew the viper was there, knew it was preparing to strike. It simply didn't matter anymore. He watched through heavy-lidded, half-open, eyes as the venomous reptile drew it's head back. Saw that flat, arrow-shaped head launch itself straight for the exposed side of his neck . . .   
  
****************  
  
Gary sat up with a strangled cry as gentle fingers caressed the left side of his neck. Startled, he looked around with a panicked look on his face. Chest heaving as he tried to slow the rapid beating of his heart, Gary rolled onto his back. His eyes darted about the room in confusion. Where . . .?  
  
"Are you okay, hon?" Lois asked her panting son as she lowered herself onto the side of the bed. She softly caressed his left cheek with the back of her right hand. His skin was pale and clammy. It was almost as if he were in shock! "Gary? Sweetie, say something," she pleaded.   
  
"M-momma?" he murmured, obviously disoriented. "Wh-where . . .? O-oh. Ss-sor-ry. Dddidn' m-mmean . . . ssscare . . .."  
  
"Don't apologize for something you haven't done, Gary," Lois admonished with a tiny smile. "You were having a nightmare. Want to talk about it?" When Gary just rolled back onto his side and curled into himself, Lois scooted a little further onto the bed with a sigh. "I wish I was the one to kill that . . . You need to talk to someone about this, hon. This is your home. You should be able to feel safe here, not threatened. Want me to call Dr. Carter? Maybe he can recommend a good therapist."  
  
"Ssseeing . . . tttwo . . . nn-nnow," Gary mumbled. "Nnno tt-ttime ffoor a-an-ny-mmore."  
  
"Then a priest or a minister. Somebody," Lois sighed, frustrated. "You can't go on like this, Gary. It's not healthy."  
  
"Sssoo-kkay," Gary murmured softly. "I-it'll . . . pppasss." He rubbed his right hand over face, as if trying to wipe away the memory. He kept his left arm hugged protectively against his chest.   
  
"When, Gary?" Lois snorted daintily. "When you're eighty? Or when your next head injury leaves you with amnesia? Didn't that group therapy help at all? Or did everything happen too fast? Doug and Hailey said you got quite a bit off your chest, but you still seemed edgy."  
  
Gary turned onto his back and gazed up at his mom with a pleading look. "Lllett der-op, p-please?" he begged her. "I-I'll wworkk . . . ou-tt."  
  
"How? By hiding from it?" she asked sarcastically. "That's worked wonderfully so far." Lois crowded a little closer against her son, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Not to mention that keeping quiet is lousy speech therapy. You could try telling me about your dreams. It'll let you get things out in the open, and help you practice speaking. Or, if not me, your dad."  
  
"Th-think 'mmbout't," Gary sighed, snuggling into his mother's embrace. "T-try a-ny-th-thing."  
  
"Then let me call and make an appointment with Dr. Zimmerman tomorrow," she suggested. "He needs to order the physical therapy, anyway. And he might be able to help us in these other areas, too. Alright?"  
  
Gary just nodded silently, absently rubbing his left wrist as if he could still feel the pain of his old injury. He would try. That was all he could promise, but he would try.  
  
*****************  
  
Gary and Lois sat outside Dr. Zimmerman's office early the next morning. There had been no need to call him. He had called them shortly after seeing the newscast when it was replayed that evening. He had been ecstatic to see Gary walking and wanted to see him right away to do an evaluation before Diane continued his therapy. They were not kept waiting very long. The moment he entered his office waiting room the doctor strode briskly up to his patient, a big smile splitting his pleasant features.   
  
"I can't tell you how wonderful it was to see that newscast," he said without preamble. He took Gary's hand and shook it vigorously. "That just made my whole year! I was on the phone with Dr. Sloan first thing this morning and he promised to send me all the data as soon as you sign a release. This is . . . 'incredible' is too mild a word. I'm not sure if 'miraculous' is sufficient to describe your situation."  
  
"T-try . . . fffrrus-ttrra-tting," Gary sighed. "Gggo-inga ffrromma wwon . . ." With a frustrated sigh he turned pleading eyes on his mother.  
  
"I think he's trying to say that it's so frustrating, swapping one disability for another," Lois translated for him. At Gary's relieved nod, she continued. "We were hoping you could fix us up with a good speech therapist."  
  
Dr. Zimmerman's expression became serious as he took in the haggard, haunted look on his earnest young patient. "Perhaps we should continue this in my office," he replied. "I have other patients due to arrive shortly." The doctor led the way behind closed doors, then sat on the edge of his desk facing his visitors. "I can fix you up with a speech therapist," he told them as Lois settled comfortably on the sofa, "but I'd also like you to talk with a psychologist. Don't take that the wrong way," he pleaded when Gary stiffened in his wheelchair. "With everything you've been through lately I think, and Dr. Sloan agrees, that you could possibly be suffering from what we call 'Conversion Syndrome.' That's where the mind has been so traumatized by events, that it creates a disability to express the need for help. In your case you were already suffering from one, very real, disability. Then everything else happened and, from what I've been able to piece together, kept on happening. It was too much. Granted, the paralyzing effect of the snake venom played a big part, but that should have cleared up by the time you left the hospital. Brain damage would've shown up on any number of the scans they did later. Of course I don't have those results yet, but this Dr. Sloan seems like a pretty sharp character. If he had seen anything like that, he wouldn't have kept it from you."  
  
Lois was watching her son carefully during the doctor's explanation. She had seen him stiffen up at the mere mention of a psychologist, just as he had with her. Then, as the physician continued, Gary had listened with growing interest, cocking his head to one side as he always did when his attention was so focused. He nodded slowly to show he understood what was being said. Then he turned his head to meet her gaze. She just smiled and nodded.  
  
"Nnno derugss," he insisted, turning back to meet Dr. Zimmerman's hopeful stare. "Tttalka oon-lly."  
  
"That's all you'll do," Dr. Zimmerman promised. "At the most he may try hypnosis, but only if all else fails. Drugs will be a last resort and only with your consent. So you'll let me set you up?"   
  
Gary shook his head reluctantly. "Hhavv . . . th-ink . . . mmbout zziss," he replied haltingly. "Nneedd . . . time."  
  
"Well," the doctor nodded, sitting back with a sigh, "let me know when you're ready. There's a gentleman who just moved into Chicago a few months ago and already has an excellent reputation. I'll give him a call whenever you're ready. In the meantime, Diane is waiting for us downstairs. She can't wait to put you through your paces!"  
  
*************  
  
Diane did more than put him through his paces. She started off by taking his vital signs. Then she pushed, pulled, stretched and prodded every muscle he had! Then she had him get on the parallel bars and watched him take a mere three steps before having him turn around and head back to his wheelchair. The therapist took his vitals, again, before putting him through another round of stretching, etc. By the time she was finished with him, Gary felt as if he had run a marathon! On his hands!   
  
Sweating and aching in places he had forgotten he had, Gary nonetheless listened attentively as Diane described what the next few months held in store for him. He began to think he would be better off in the chair!  
  
"I intend to have you out of that chair before the end of this month," she told him in no uncertain terms. "Before the middle of April you'll toss the walker and move up to canes. It won't be much longer after that when you can toss those. I'm not saying it'll be easy, and it's going to hurt. But you could be running again by the end of August."  
  
Gary tried to keep his expression neutral, but Diane could see the hope shining out of his eyes. This man would do whatever it took to get back on his feet, no matter what! Aware of his speech problem, she knelt down by his wheelchair and took his hand in hers. She wasn't at all surprised to feel a slight, nervous, tremor.  
  
"We'll get you through this, Gary," she told him earnestly. "You have my word on that. I'm getting married this June, and I want you to give me away." At his stunned look Diane went on to explain. "I want you to walk down that aisle with me in place of my father, who passed away two years ago. And I want you to speak up for me. This is the most important day of my life, Gary," she added. pleadingly. "I want to share it with someone special. Will you do this for me?"  
  
Wordlessly Gary nodded slowly, amazed to have been included in such an integral part of her life. She barely . . .! Well, actually, they had come to know each other fairly well. Still . . .  
  
"Mmmbee . . . 'onn-or'd," he stammered.  
  
Diane's response was to give him a huge grin and a hug that almost took his breath. "That's wonderful!" she exulted. "Now, we have even more reason to get you back on your feet. We can do this, Gary! I know we can!"  
  
********************  
  
A few days later, Gary was putting his own parallel bars to work. He tried to get in just a few extra minutes each day, encouraged whenever he was able to get in an extra step. The young barkeep was just turning for the return trip when he heard a gentle rapping on his door.  
  
"Gary?" his mom called out. "You decent, hon?"  
  
There was a first! She usually just let herself in lately. He looked toward the door, not really surprised to see two silhouettes through the rippled glass. "C-c'mon i-inn," he told her. The door swung open to admit his mom and . . . Crystal? What was she doing in Chicago? Then he recalled the suggestion he had made to her about amateur theater. "Hhhellllo, C-crystal," he stammered.   
  
The young woman stepped forward boldly as she spoke. "Hi, Gary," she said with a hesitant smile. "I decided to take your advice. About the amateur work? I did some research on the web and found that Chicago and New York have more little theater groups than any other large city, so here I am. In the meantime, I need to eat and you have this ad in the paper for a waitress. Your mother said it pays decent and there's a vacant apartment just across the street. I hope you don't mind. It just all seemed so perfect, you being the only people I know in the whole city and all."  
  
Gary held his hand up as he settled back into his wheelchair, hoping to slow down the young woman's rush of words. How could anyone talk that fast? "Yyou aarr h-hi-erd," he assured her. "Ssstart . . . wwhhen?"  
  
"Tomorrow?" Crystal suggested hopefully. At Gary's nod she relaxed, her smile becoming less strained and more radiant. "Great! Morning or evening shift?"  
  
"Late morning to start with," Lois spoke up hurriedly. "Then four to midnight. That's the best one for big tippers. If you find a part, we'll try to work around rehearsals and such. Right, hon?" At Gary's quiet nod, she continued. "So, how long are you going to be in town?"  
  
"If I find a part," Crystal replied uncertainly, "then for as long as it lasts. If not, then I should try New York for a while. I figured to give it three months? I mean I want to give it a good shot, but I can't afford to just sit still. You know what I mean? Or I might find an agent who'll really work to get me some decent parts. I guess it all sort of . . . depends."  
  
"Zzzat's fffine," Gary told the young actress, smiling hesitantly. "Mmmomma wwill sshhow yyou 'rround. Wwwel-c-come t-to Shhi-ca-go."  
  
"Thanks," Crystal sighed, favoring him with another smile. "First thing in the morning, then. This is going to be so great!" she added as she turned for the door. "Just wait 'til I tell Jade!"  
  
Lois shot Gary an amused look as she followed the younger woman through the door. She mouthed a silent 'Be right back' as she disappeared through the portal. Gary just smiled and shook his head. Crystal could either be a breath of fresh air or a minor tempest. Only time would tell.   
  
When Lois returned, with Marissa in tow, she found her son once again sitting in his wheel chair between the parallel bars and the sofa. He was doing the simple strengthening exercises Diane had taught him that week. He was so determined to speed up his recovery that he spent almost every waking moment at them. Which was just as well. It left him with less time to worry about the paper . . . and who was handling it. If Bernie didn't stop taking foolish chances, Gary was going to end up with more gray hair than his dad!   
  
"I think Crystal is going to work out just fine," Lois commented to the young blind woman, acting as if Gary were not in the room. "Don't you?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Marissa replied with a mischievous smile. "She seems very friendly. And she was especially taken with Gary. Went on and on about how nice he was to her back in Los Angeles."  
  
"I think she likes him," Lois remarked in a loud, conspiratorial whisper as she took a seat on the sofa. Marissa settled down in the easy chair. "Such a nice girl." She turned to find Gary giving her a lopsided grin as he wordlessly continued his exercises. "What did you think of her, Gary?"  
  
"Sshhee's nnnice," Gary admitted, his face reddening just a bit. "P-pret-ty . . . t-to."  
  
"Is she?" Marissa asked innocently. "I didn't notice."  
  
"H-ha-ha," Gary deadpanned. "O-old jj-joke, Mmma-rri-ssa. Ve-ry . . . old."  
  
"I know," the young black woman smiled. "She did seem nice, though. And very fond of you. Maybe you should ask her out sometime. Not right away," she added hastily. "After you get to know each other a little better. About a week or so?" This last was said more in Lois' direction.  
  
"At least," Lois nodded. "They shouldn't rush into things. A lot of broken hearts come from not taking the time to be sure of where you stand with someone. Oh, there's that jazz exhibition at the Cultural Center next week. That would be a good first date. Or a nice play. There's a mystery opening next Thursday."  
  
"There's always the aquarium," Marissa shrugged. "Or the art museum. What about . . .?" She was interrupted by Gary, who shoved a hastily scribbled note into her hand. Puzzled, she handed the piece of paper to Lois.  
  
Gary's mother took the note, smiling as she began to read it out loud. "'Should we have a June wedding or do you like Fall better?' Alright," she chuckled. "Enough teasing. She is a sweet girl, though, and she likes you. As you've often told me, anything's possible."  
  
Grinning, Gary slowly stretched his left leg out until he could give Marissa's cane a gentle nudge with his foot. "G-got zzat rrright."  
  
*****************  
  
Chuck came by the next day to bid his friend farewell. He had been spending most of his time trying to help Bernie with the paper since his return to Chicago. That situation, alone, was enough to give Lois and Gary matching nightmares! Somehow the two men had managed to survive over a week of near misses and bad timing. Now it was time for Chuck Fishman to return home to his family. As he ascended the stairs to Gary's loft, his mind drifted back over the last several months. It still frightened him, a little, knowing how close his best friend had come to becoming nothing more than a fond memory. Seeing him in the hospital right after he was brought in for that snake bite . . . It had been ten times worse than when Gary had been struck by that car. Then he had been unconscious only a few hours. To see him lying there, knowing he was awake and totally helpless had almost been too much for the young producer.   
  
He opened the door without knocking; something that he knew annoyed Gary to no end, which was one of the reasons he did it. As Chuck eased inside, hoping to surprise his friend, his breath caught in his throat at the sight that greeted him.   
  
Gary was on the parallel bars once more. He was almost to the end, shuffling one foot slowly in front of the other. Sweat beaded his brow from the effort he was putting into a simple task that most people took for granted. When he reached the end, Gary turned by placing both hands on the same rail and pivoting on the balls of his feet. It was only then that he noticed his audience of one.  
  
"Hhi, Ch-Chuck," he panted. Gary shot his friend a strained smile as he began the shambling trek back to his wheelchair. To his relief Chuck waited patiently by the sofa, making no move to assist him. His friend understood that Gary needed to do this on his own.   
  
"I didn't think you were supposed to be doin' that alone," Chuck commented as he sprawled on the sofa. "Don't you need a 'spotter' or something? In case of trouble, I mean."  
  
"I . . . ssup-p-pose," Gary stammered as he reached his goal. Sinking into his chair with a sigh of relief, he paused a moment to wipe the sweat from his face and neck with a towel he'd left slung across the back. He took the time to study his friend. Chuck was dressed in a suit and tie, something he had avoided while helping Bernie with their 'errands.' "C-come to sssay 'guh-ood-mmbye?'"  
  
"Yeah," Chuck shrugged. "Jade and the kids need me more than you do. Besides, I miss 'em. Got a seat on the five o'clock out of O'Hare tonight. So . . . when do you graduate to the walker?"  
  
"Nnnexsst www-eek, mmay-be" Gary replied with a sigh. He made it sound as if 'next week' equated to 'forever.' "G-onna mmiss yyyou."  
  
"It's not like we'll never see each other again," Chuck shrugged, trying to keep a light tone. The tightness in his voice betrayed him, however. "I mean . . . you know where I live. I know where you live. We can get together for holidays and birthdays . . . and such."  
  
"Sssurre," Gary replied, trying for a matching air of nonchalance. "G-ot to . . ." Frustrated, he grabbed a pad and pen off the table, scribbling furiously. When he was finished, he tore the page off, handing it to Chuck. 'Got to keep in touch with my Godchildren,' he'd written. 'You'll bring them out to visit sometime? Let me know when they start to walk and such?'  
  
"Of course," Chuck promised. "And you'll have to keep me up on what's going on here, too. I want to know when you meet someone special."  
  
Gary handed him another note. 'Pictures! Take lots of pictures!'  
  
"Gary!" Chuck protested. "I'm in the 'Industry' now! I'll make movies. Send you a video every month, I promise. And stills for the album. No sweat." He paused a moment, hesitant to bring up the next subject. "What will you do if, you know, you don't get . . . all your mobility back? What I mean is . . . what if you need crutches or canes the rest . . . Gary, please! Don't look at me like that! I'm just tryin' to play 'Devil's Advocate' here. Will you be able to handle everything? The paper and all?"  
  
Stung, Gary handed him the next message and pivoted his chair so that he was facing away from his well-meaning friend.  
  
'I did alright before,' he'd written. 'I will walk on my own. Believe in me. Please.'  
  
"Gary," Chuck sighed, rising to place a hand on his friend's shoulder, "if there's anything in this crazy world I do believe in, it's you. Take care, pal." He gave Gary's shoulder a rough shake and turned to go.  
  
"Mmbbe sssaffe, Ch-Chuck," Gary murmured as the door closed behind one of the best, and truest, friends he had in the world.  
  
****************  
  
Crystal came up a few days later to bring Gary some papers Marissa said had to be signed 'right away.' She found him once again on the bars, shuffling his feet in time to a stammered rhyme.   
  
"P-p-pe-ter P-p-p-pi-per p-p-picked p-p-peck p-p-p-p-pic-culed p-p-p-p-pep-p-p-pers," Gary muttered. As he reached the chair he executed a graceful turn and recited the rest of the tongue twister as he made his arduous trek to the other end. He was concentrating so hard on his twin tasks; he failed to notice her until he finally eased into his wheelchair with a sigh of weariness. "Wh-what . . . c-can . . . I d-do . . . ffffor yyyyou, Crrrys-ttall?" he asked.  
  
"Oh! Um, Marissa said these needed you signature," she said waving the sheaf of papers at him. Crystal lay the forms on his coffee table, handing him a pen from her apron pocket. "Not making any progress with the speech therapy?" the young actress wannabe asked sympathetically. When Gary shook his head ruefully she sank down on the sofa, her slender features composed in a thoughtful frown. "You know, one of my acting coaches had this technique for helping some of us lose regional accents. He taught us sign language. His theory was that, if we were too busy concentrating on how the words were shaped, we'd be too preoccupied to worry about how they sounded. As we shaped the words with our hands our minds just sort of, well, followed along."  
  
Gary looked at her with growing interest as he listened to her explanation. He then signed the stack of forms wordlessly, using the time to formulate a response. Finally, he turned to face his new waitress, handing her the papers. "D-d-did itt wwwork?"  
  
"Can you tell I'm from the Bronx?" she asked with an impish smile.  
  
Surprised, Gary shook his head. If anything, he would have thought she was from the west coast. Perhaps Los Angeles.   
  
"Then I guess it worked," Crystal remarked with a laugh. "Another technique is to learn to sing. That's something I still need to work on, but I met this nice young man who's offered to teach me. Perhaps I could persuade him to include you?" she added hopefully.  
  
Hesitantly, Gary nodded. He had done a little singing in the church choir back home in Hickory, but not since he was a kid. It had never been one of his favorite activities and he had only done it to please his mom. Once his voice began to change he had used it as an excuse to quit. Now he was being asked to take it up again! If it helped rid him of this damnable stutter, though, he'd sing 'The Star-Spangled Banner' at the next Cubs game!  
  
"Great!" Crystal gushed, clasping her hands together in her enthusiasm. "I'll give him a call tonight. He's a really nice young man with a wonderful gift. I think you two will hit it off great." She flounced off the sofa and was halfway to the door before she remembered the papers. Flashing him an embarrassed grin, she snatched them off his table and practically ran down the stairs.   
  
Shaking his head with an amused grin of his own, Gary turned his wheelchair and headed for the bathroom. He'd worked up quite a sweat trying to walk and talk at the same time. Right now, even images of Savalas couldn't keep him from a hot bath.  
  
******************  
  
Danny Bellagio was a very handsome young man about Crystal's age. He was tall, athletic, with classic good looks and pale blonde hair. When Crystal first introduced him, the younger man shook Gary's hand with a guarded expression.   
  
"Crystal said you had a speech problem," he said, looking pointedly at the wheelchair. "She didn't say you were crippled, too."  
  
"Nnot mm-mmuch lllong-er," Gary told him, bristling slightly at the word 'crippled.' "G-gget-ting mmbet-ter. Mmbe ww-alk-ing sssoon."  
  
"Wow! That is some stutter!" Bellagio observed with surprise. "I don't know if singing lessons will help that!"  
  
"We won't know until we try," Crystal spoke up. "Please, Danny! You promised! Gary's in a real fix, here! The speech therapy isn't working and he needs your help!"  
  
"I didn't say I wouldn't try, darling," Danny hurriedly assured her. "I just don't know if it will help all that much." He turned back to his new 'pupil.' "Let's hear you do the scales."  
  
Gary shot Crystal a doubtful look, then slowly began to recite. "D-do, rre, f-fa . . ."  
  
"Nonono," Danny quickly cut him off. "Don't say them. Sing them. Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do! Like that. Try it."  
  
Feeling like a fool, Gary nonetheless did as he was told. To his surprise he got through it with hardly a stammer. "D-do-re-mi-fa-sso-la-ti-d-do."   
  
"Excellent!" Danny exclaimed. "This just might work after all! And your voice has a marvelous timber. We need to start with your breath control, first of all. You need to bring your voice up from the diaphragm, not just the throat." He proceeded to demonstrate what he meant, letting loose with a note that rang out with remarkable clarity, holding it for several seconds. "Now you try it."  
  
Gary surprised himself by reproducing the note to a recognizable degree. He wasn't able to hold it as long as Danny had, but he came pretty close.  
  
*****************  
  
And so began Gary's singing lessons. Danny came by every other afternoon, driving Gary like a drill sergeant. In between, Crystal taught him sign language. By making him say each letter and word as he shaped them, she forced him to enunciate his words more carefully. It was slow, tedious work with a lot of repetition. Still Gary stuck it out, making Crystal laugh with some of his more spectacular errors.   
  
Days passed into weeks as Gary was pushed to his limits both physically and mentally. On the few occasions that he left his apartment, it was usually on 'errands' for the paper. It seemed there were still times that his 'personal touch' was required to make something come out right. He was also required to deal with the routine business that went with owning a bar.   
  
Lois and Bernie were having little luck finding a house closer to the city, and even less in selling their old home in Hickory. Several times a day, they got calls from friends and neighbors begging them to reconsider. Lois was polite but firm. She reminded some of them about their cruel treatment of her son at a time when he was in serious need of their support and understanding. She then asked how they would feel if it had been their child. Those were the ones who did not call a second time.  
  
It was the first week of March when Diane finally upgraded her patient to a walker. This forced Gary to depend more on his legs to support his weight, rather than his arms. It also made riding the chairlift up and down a little scarier. The first few times he tried it left Gary pale and shaking. He managed to overcome this problem simply by keeping his eyes closed, a practice his mother tried to discourage.   
  
"What if that contraption breaks down while you're on it?" Bernie asked, trying to reason with his son. "Are we supposed to pick your broken body up and put it back together again?"  
  
"W-what sshould I do, D-dad?" he asked. "Sstay in my a-part-ment? Can't nna-vigate those sstairs wwith this . . . thing" Gary shook the walker slightly for emphasis. "You can't hhave it both wways," he added, saying each word carefully. "You can't . . . pro-tect me and ex-pect me to mmake any pro-gress."  
  
Bernie and Lois wisely backed off and let Gary proceed at his own pace. Nevertheless, they kept a careful eye on him. Surreptitiously, of course. Thus they were the first to see him advance to the next stage on his own. Hearing a strange, clattering noise in the back stairwell just a few days later, Lois and Bernie cautiously peered around the door. Lois put a hand to her mouth to keep from making a sound, her breath catching in her throat at the scene before them. Bernie just grinned like the proud father he was.  
  
There was Gary, slowly working his way up the stairs, holding onto the railing with one hand and the walker with the other. Using only the front legs of the device on the steps, he worked his way upwards. When he reached the first landing, he turned and carefully began his decent. This time he used the back legs of the walker to maintain his balance. The decent appeared much more precarious than the ascent, and Gary arms were trembling from the exertion . . . and the strain. With a sigh of weariness, he hit the button that activated the lift then lowered himself until he was sitting cross-legged on the platform. In this manner he rode the lift until he was out of sight.  
  
Bernie and Lois never questioned him again on the matter of the stairs.  
  
******************  
  
Diane presented him with a pair of aluminum canes on the third week of March, a full three weeks ahead of her projected schedule. Gary's determination had proven to be his biggest asset. It had been painful, as she had promised. To Gary it had also seemed incredibly slow. Nonetheless he was progressing at a much faster pace than was normal.   
  
His speech therapy was also proving effective. Under the 'triple whammy' of the regular therapist, the voice training, and Crystal's sign language lessons, Gary's stutter had improved measurably by the time Diane took away his walker. He was assured that, in time, he would hardly notice the slight hesitation he still had when trying to pronounce certain sounds.  
  
A few days after Diane's pronouncement, Crumb came by for a 'friendly visit.' He found Gary working out with ankle weights. The ex-cop turned detective settled onto the sofa, watching as the younger man continued to do leg lifts while flat on his back.   
  
"What can I d-do for you, Crumb?" Gary huffed.   
  
"Nice to see you too, Hobson," Crumb remarked. "Got a little project I'm tryin' to put together. A little . . . mystery play. Ya interested?"  
  
Gary stopped his exercises and rolled on his side to face Crumb. "You serious? I th-thought you hhad enough of that af-ter the llast time," he commented.   
  
"Yeah, well, I got talked into this by Darlene," he grumbled sheepishly. "She was lookin' around my place one day and . . . Get that smirk off yer pan, Hobson! Nothin' like that was goin' on! She was just there for coffee. Anyway, she saw what was left of my memoirs, and asked if I'd ever thought of writing a stage play. Well, one thing kinda led to another . . . You know how . . . I swear, Hobson, if you don't wipe that grin off yer face . . .!"   
  
"Ssorry," Gary chuckled, enjoying the big man's discomfort. "Sso you wrote a p-play? Wwhat kind did you say? Mys-tery?"  
  
"What else?" Crumb snorted. "Crime and police work is all I know. So I let her talk me into writing this play together. We've been working' on it since before . . . you know."  
  
"My ac-ci-d-dent," Gary replied with a slow nod. "Hhow's it coming?"  
  
"We finished it just before you got back to town," the ex-cop admitted. "The last coupla months we been tryin' to book a theater and put a cast together. We got our hero, a crusty hard-bitten retired cop."  
  
"Ssoundss familiar."  
  
"Yeah yeah, I know," Crumb snorted. "Whadya expect? We got our list of suspects and a few supporting characters. What we don't got is someone to play the victim. For some reason you come to mind whenever that word comes up."  
  
"Ha ha, Crumb," Gary responded, levering himself up to a seated position. "Sso you wwant me to get k-killed on sstage rather than real llife."  
  
"Nope," was Crumbs surprising response. "The play is about who's trying to kill you. But you do get wounded in the first and sixth act. That's when we uncover the perp and she gets one last crack at you."  
  
"Nnice," Gary murmured. He gave his friend a speculative look. "Iss it a big p-part?"  
  
"You only have a few lines in each act," Crumb assured him. "You're a young tycoon, nice enough guy, but you didn't get where you are without stepping on a few toes. Late one night, while you're sitting at your desk at home, someone pops you. They think they've killed you, but it's only a flesh wound. Most of your scenes are in a hospital bed until the last act, when we spring you on the suspects and the killer reacts by trying again."  
  
"Been in enough hhospital beds, thank you," Gary grumbled as he used his canes to pull himself to his feet.   
  
"We figured that," the big detective replied hurriedly. "So we did a few rewrites. You only spend two acts in the hospital, the rest we keep you out of sight in a seedy hotel. It means an extra set, but Darlene wants to get everybody back together. Kinda like a reunion."  
  
The young tavern owner eyed his friend speculatively as he made his way to the easy chair. Sinking down with a sigh, he continued to think over the ex-cop's proposal.   
  
"I d-don't know," he murmured. "I'm nnot 'zactly at my b-best right now."  
  
"That's okay!" Crumb was quick to assure him. "You don't have to be for this role! We thought about writin' it for you to be in that wheelchair, but you won't even need it by the time openin' night gets here. Your first scene is behind a desk. You don't even stand up until just before you're shot!"  
  
"I st-still st-stutter some," Gary pointed out reasonably.   
  
"So?" the ex-cop shrugged. "You've had a stutter since I've known you. Didn't stop you last time. C'mon, Hobson! Don't make me beg! This'll mean a lot to the others. Besides, it's not like you got anything else to do."  
  
"H-how do yyou know?" Gary grumbled. "I've st-still got a llife, you know."  
  
"I can see that," Crumb commented dryly. "You've hardly been outta this dump in a month. So? Will ya do it?"  
  
Miffed at the acid, and all too accurate, assessment of his social life, Gary pretended to give deep consideration to the request. Then he noticed Crumb squirming out of the corner of his eye and decided to let his friend off the hook. 'This must mean a lot to him,' he thought.  
  
"It might be ffun," he reluctantly conceded. "I g-guess you can c-count me in."  
  
"That's great! I'll let the others know we got you on board." Crumb rose to go, stopping at the door as if he had just remembered something. "You don't happen to know anyone else who'd like a part, would you? We got one left, your kid sister. She needs to be in her twenty's, kinda pretty. You know the type."  
  
Gary immediately thought of Crystal and said so. Crumb promised to check her out. As the burly ex-cop disappeared through the door, Gary sat back with a sigh. Something told him he had just bitten off more than he could chew. How would he balance rehearsals, the paper, and rehab? That was an awful lot to put on one plate.  
  
*******************  
  
"A play, Gary?" Lois murmured hesitantly. "Are you up to something like that? I mean, you're making tremendous progress," she hastened to add as he gave her a hurt, disappointed look, "but look at everything you're trying to deal with! You've become more involved in the bar, doing at least half of the rescues for the paper, two hours of rehab each day, plus the voice lessons and the sign language when you can fit that in. How are you going to fit rehearsals into a schedule like that?"  
  
"I'll m-manage," Gary assured her. It was a little over a week since Crumb's visit and a beautiful spring day. The two of them were taking their time, strolling through Grant Park on their way to stop little Davy Williams from choking on a pretzel. Gary gave himself as much time as he could to reach his destination. Although he was now using only one cane, he still was not able to manage more than a shuffling trot, at best. He hoped the new treadmill he was having delivered that day would help with the problem. It meant having to dismantle the parallel bars, but they had served their purpose and could be 'retired' with honor. "It mmight even hhelp with the sspeech therapy," he added. "Hhaving to rre-peat the ssame lines over and over, I c-could be sspeaking normally by o-pen-ing nnight."  
  
Lois put an arm around her son's waist as they neared their goal. She knew how hard he was pushing himself and how badly he wanted things to return to the way they were before the accident. It was one of the things that worried her, this single-minded determination. She also knew he was still having nightmares. The lack of sleep showed in the dark circles under his eyes. Lois often wondered if Gary was driving himself so hard as a means of coping with the horrors he had faced during the past year.  
  
Gary arrived on the scene just as the ten-year-old boy scarfed down a huge chunk of soft pretzel. A surprised, frightened look materialized on Davy's young face as the morsel lodged in his throat. He looked around in panic, struggling to pull air in past the obstruction. All that he succeeded in doing was to wedge it in even tighter! Gary quickly wrapped both arms around the child and gave a quick, forceful, upward thrust under his ribcage. The bit of pretzel went flying as air was driven upwards, expelling it like a doughy projectile.  
  
The boy drew in a huge, wheezing gulp of air. Holding onto his rescuer for support, Davy tried to get his breathing back under control.  
  
"You ok-kay, kid?" Gary asked as he guided the boy to a bench. "Sit here a m-moment. L-look at me. C'mon, open your eyes. That's good. Still dizzy?" The boy nodded wordlessly. "Thought so. Where's your ffolks? Are they close?"   
  
The child pointed a shaky hand toward a couple headed in their general direction. At the same moment, the woman could be heard giving vent to an alarmed cry as she caught sight of the strange man hovering over her son. Breaking into a run, the couple quickly covered the short distance, demanding to know what had happened!   
  
"Who are you?" the mother demanded. "What's wrong with Davy? What did you do to him?"  
  
"Ch-choking," the boy stammered. "C-couldn't breathe." Davy pointed to Gary. "He . . . he saved me, Mom."  
  
Gary was already backing away to rejoin his own mother who was bristling to come to his defense. Ever since practically the entire town of Hickory, Indiana, had seemed to turn against him, she was more than a little sensitive to any accusations leveled against her son.  
  
"L-let it go, M-mom," Gary told her as he took her elbow and turned her back the way they had come. "P-par for the c-course." They hadn't gone far when Gary felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Half turning, Gary saw the man he assumed must be the boy's father.  
  
"I didn't want you to leave without saying 'thank you,'" the man told him. "And to apologize for my wife. See, Davy's the only child we'll ever have and she's very protective of him. You saved his life and I just wanted you to know how grateful we are for that. I'm Justin Williams. You've, um, you've met my wife, Melissa, and my son, David."  
  
"G-Gary Hhobson, and y-you're wel-come," Gary replied with a smile and a nod. "Glad I was able to h-help. I'm an on-lly ch-child myself," he added. "I know how p-protective mom's can be." He gave Lois a sly, sideways look. "Th-this is my mom, Lois."  
  
"Pleased to meet you," Lois murmured, a slow flush coloring her cheeks. "Gary's trying to remind me that he's all grown up and I should stop jumping to his defense. That will never happen," she added, favoring her grinning son with a stern gaze.  
  
Justin looked over to where his wife was still fussing over his son. "I know," he sighed. Turning back to his child's rescuer, he smiled sadly. "Again, thank you. If there's ever anything I can do for you, just call," he added, handing them a business card. "I'm a casting director for Tri-Star. We're based in L.A., but we're here on vacation."  
  
"Chicago's a great city for that," Lois told him warmly. "Well, take care of that son of yours, Mr. Williams, and have a good day."  
  
Williams turned back as he hurried back to his family. "If you know anyone trying to break into the business," he called back, "let me know. I might be able to help."  
  
"Th-thanks," Gary replied. "I j-just might." He turned back to his mother, stuffing the card in his pocket. "See. Mom?" he said. "Not everyone is ungrateful. Times like th-this are rare, but they happen. When they do . . . well . . ."  
  
"It makes it all worth it," Lois sighed as she linked her arm with his. "I just wish, for your sake, that they happened more often."  
  
"Me, too," Gary murmured softly. "Me, too."  
  
*******************  
  
A few days later, Gary was standing in front of the same theater where he, Crumb, and the rest of their little troupe had put on an amateur production of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Had it really been just a little over a year ago? After that one moment in the limelight, he had never imagined that he would agree to another such adventure.  
  
"Are we going to stand here all day?" Crystal asked, tilting her head to give Gary an impish grin, "or are you going to show me around?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, sorry," Gary murmured as he snapped himself back to the present. "J-just sorta . . . It's a nos-tal-gia kinda thing."  
  
"Ah, yes," the young actress nodded sagely. "Reminiscing over the first time you 'trod the boards,' so to speak. You feel the excitement, the thrill of being on that stage, hearing the thunder of applause and knowing that it's for you! Admit it! You've got the acting bug!"  
  
"What I've g-got is rocks in my head for agreeing t-to do this," Gary sighed as he led the way to the backstage door. "C-c'mon. It's time for you to mmeet the others." They followed the narrow alley until they came to the metal door, finding it partially ajar. "Hunh," Gary murmured. "They mmust've left it o-open for us." He let Crystal take his arm, leading her into the darkened entry.   
  
The soft murmur of voices led them to where a small, but varied, group was standing around on the open stage. Crumb was talking animatedly with Oscar, the theater owner, about getting the right props for the various scenes. Darlene was huddled with Sophie and Reggie, pouring over a sheaf of papers; evidently the infamous script. A young man with dark, curly hair was setting up a table on center stage with the assistance of a pretty blonde woman. Gary recognized him as the pizza delivery boy he had accidentally injured while trying to save someone else from a more serious injury. He was the one Gary had been shanghaied to replace in their last production. Chris something? The woman seemed vaguely familiar, too. Maybe when he heard her name he'd remember.  
  
"Gary!"  
  
Crumb and Oscar were coming his way. Oscar was looking at the cane Gary was leaning on with a worried frown.  
  
"Glad to see you could make it," Crumb huffed. "We was gettin' worried you'd changed yer mind."  
  
"Oh, Gary wouldn't do that!" Darlene said, raising her head to smile in their direction. "He's a trouper. Remember how he went through that whole production with a sprained ankle last time? And not a whimper out of him!"  
  
"I-it wasn't sprained," Gary gently corrected her. "Just twisted."  
  
"It was swollen like a grapefruit," Crumb grumbled. "We was beginnin' ta think we was jinxed."  
  
Gary was very careful not to look at Reggie. Although Crumb had been the one to catch him in the act of trying to sabotage the theater, the young barkeep had finally weaseled the whole story from the ex-cop before opening night. Reggie had just been too embarrassed to admit to a horrible case of stage fright in front of Sophie, the young woman he was head-over-heels in love with.   
  
"You up to this, Gary?" Oscar asked. "Last time I saw you, you didn't look so good."  
  
"I'm fine," Gary assured everyone. "M-my speech is al-most back to normal, and I'm walking around p-pretty good. I never got to th-thank all of you for the cards and f-flowers you sent while I was hhos . . . hhosp . . . l-laid up. It meant a lot. Th-thank you. Um, everyone, this is Crystal, one of my waitresses and a b-budding actress." He quickly introduced the others, although she was already familiar with Crumb. When he came to the blonde, though, Gary was at a loss for words. He still couldn't think of where he had seen her before! "I don't believe I caught your name," he shrugged apologetically.  
  
"Elaine," she told him, smiling sadly. "I doubt you would remember me," she added. "I was only one of several people you rescued that week, from what I understand."  
  
Then he knew. The library. She was the woman who would've been crushed, or skewered, by a broken mobile sculpture if he had not done a 'Tarzan' and scooped her out of harm's way. His shoulder had ached for a week.  
  
"The, um, the Emily B-Bronte Society?" he ventured to guess.  
  
Her smile brightened immediately. "You do remember!"  
  
"How could I f-forget?" Gary replied with a rueful grin. "Between you, a li-brar-ian named Abby, my chef Tony, and my b-best friend Chuck, I had one of the c-craziest weeks of my life! Not to m-mention a real beaut of a sh-shiner. No hhard ffeelings, though. Right?" he added hopefully.  
  
"Of course not," Elaine replied with a radiant smile.  
  
A little too radiant. Gary was finding it hard to hold his own smile as a chill ran up his spine. Something had just delivered a stern warning. 'Watch out for this woman,' it had said. Gary wasn't sure what, exactly, was wrong about her. Maybe it was the fact that her smile never reached her eyes.  
  
Darlene handed the two latecomers their own copies of the script. It was time to get down to work. They spent the rest of that afternoon getting to know their characters and blocking out scenes. After several hours, it was Crystal who finally called a halt. She had noticed how her boss was beginning to have difficulty getting up and down, which he had to do a number of times while rehearsing the first scene. He was also having a little trouble staying focused and his hand was trembling as it gripped his cane. Gary was exhausted and trying hard not to show it. She pulled Darlene aside, speaking softly.  
  
"I think Gary's had enough for one day," the younger woman observed. "He's just too stubborn to admit it."  
  
"You could be right," Darlene agreed, glancing over to where the object of their concern had his elbows leaning on the table, trying to scrub the weariness from his pale features. "He's pushing himself much too hard, isn't he." It was not a question.  
  
"He insisted on walking here from the bar, rather than take a cab or the van," Crystal related with a sigh. "Does that tell you anything?"  
  
"I'll call a cab," Darlene replied. She turned to the rest of the group and clapped her hands to get their attention. "Time to call it a night, children. We can pick it up again tomorrow at the hospital scene. Six o'clock? Excellent!" she exclaimed when everyone agreed. "Gary, you sit back down. I'm going to get you two a taxi."  
  
"That's okay," Crumb said as he shrugged into his jacket. "I'll drop 'em on my way to the office. There's some paperwork I gotta get ready to mail in the morning, anyways. C'mon, Hobson. You look beat."  
  
"I'm okay," Gary mumbled, unable to hide his weariness. Even from himself. He arose from his chair with visible effort. Leaning on his cane a little more than he had coming in, Gary hobbled painfully toward the back stairs. "Just a little tired. Let's go."  
  
A few minutes later, Gary leaned back into the front passenger seat with a sigh. He ached all over, especially in his legs and shoulders.   
  
"You're trying to do too much, Hobson," Crumb grumbled as he helped Crystal get comfortable in the back. The ex-cop circled around the car and slid behind the wheel, glancing over at the younger man. "You're gonna kill yourself gettin' better."  
  
"Give it a rest, would ya?" Gary sighed. "I know I over did it today and I'll try to get more rest tomorrow. Just . . . I can't let up too much, or I'll never get back to a hundred percent."  
  
Crystal leaned forward, resting her chin on the back of his seat. "Do you realize," she asked, "that you just got through that whole statement without stuttering?"  
  
Gary turned his head, shooting her a startled, thoughtful look. Crumb, too, looked at her, then at Gary with a big smile.   
  
"Come to think of it," the crusty ex-cop observed, "you've hardly stuttered all night. Just a little there when you first came in. I think you even managed to do that whole first act without once stumbling over your tongue."  
  
"I did, didn't I," Gary murmured in an awed tone. "Hunh! How 'bout that? You-you think maybe I'm cured?"  
  
"I hope so," the girl smiled. "Your friends say you've always stuttered when you're excited or nervous. At least you're back to what you were before the accident."  
  
"This calls for a celebration," Crumb insisted. "You kids hungry?"  
  
"Starved," Crystal said with an exaggerated sigh. "Chinese?"  
  
"Sounds good," Gary nodded.  
  
"Chinese it is, then," Crumb agreed as he slid the key into the ignition. "My treat, and no arguments from you, Hobson. Just sit back and enjoy the ride."  
  
*************  
  
"So this bozo tries to frame his partner for the embezzling that he's been doin', but he doesn't know that all the passwords 've been changed. So there's all this money sittin' in an account he's dummied up under his buddy's name, and he can't touch it!"   
  
Crumb was regaling his captive audience with some of his more colorful cases. The two younger diners listened patiently through the combination platter as he had told of the man who was not only cheating on his wife, but also on both of his girlfriends . . . with a guy, no less! Their entrees were delivered as he had launched into his latest tale. Which sounded strangely familiar.  
  
"Whoa!" Gary pleaded. "H-hold on a minute. Isn't this kinda like the plot for that Pat-rick Swayze movie? What was . . . 'Ghost,' I think it was."  
  
"I said he wasn't too bright," Crumb replied with a sly grin. "To top it off, he started his little scam while his pal was on a wilderness retreat. Not even a laptop for miles." The ex-cop shook his head ruefully. "Some guys think that a fancy degree puts them ahead of everybody else in the brains department."  
  
"Hey," Gary protested. "D-don't knock 'higher education,' Crumb. I got a degree myself. You can hardly be a s-stockbroker these days without an MBA."  
  
"True," the big man shrugged. "But I don't see you haulin' it out every ten minutes to impress people. In fact, this is the first time since I've known you that you've even mentioned it."  
  
Gary suddenly found something fascinating about his Szechwan shrimp. "N-never came up before," he murmured. "It's not like I was a b-brain surgeon or anything."  
  
"Oh! That reminds me," Crystal spoke up around a bit of lo-mein. "Dr. Sloan called this morning. He wanted to know how you were doing and to let you know that he and Steve were going to be in town tomorrow night for that law enforcement seminar next week. He also said to tell you that they'd be stopping by the bar for lunch on Friday, if that's okay with you."  
  
"Of course it's okay," Gary replied with a sly grin. "New customers are always welcome."  
  
*****************  
  
Crumb dropped Crystal at her apartment across from McGinty's, then insisted on helping Gary into the bar.  
  
"I'm not helpless, Crumb," the younger man grumbled. "J-just a little tired, that's all."  
  
"And stubborn as a mule," a familiar voice said from the darkness.  
  
Both men spun to face the newcomer, with Gary almost losing his precarious balance. The petite figure of Toni Brigatti stepped into the glow of the nearby streetlight. "How ya doin', Hobson?" she asked in a casual tone.   
  
"Fine, Brigatti," he replied in a guarded voice. "You're . . . You're lookin' good. Is there something I can do for you?"  
  
"Is that all you have to say?" the slender woman asked, her brown eyes studying his face as if she could read his intentions there. "No 'where ya been, Brigatti?' Or 'why did you stay away for so long?' Nothing? Aren't you even curious?"  
  
Crumb edged slowly back around to the driver's side of his car. "I think maybe you two need to be alone," he grumbled. "The day after tomorrow, Hobson. Five o'clock. Be ready. "  
  
"Sure thing, Crumb," Gary nodded. "And thanks for the lift." He leaned on his cane and waited until his friend had driven out of sight before turning to his visitor. "To answer you're question," he told her, "I guess I th-thought you'd lost interest once you saw I wasn't gonna be stuck in that chair for the rest of my life."  
  
A grimace of pain flickered across Brigatti's olive-skinned features as his cutting remark hit home. She figured that, after their last encounter, she deserved that. At a time when he had badly needed a friend, someone he could trust, she had not just, in essence, betrayed him. She had also used him for her own gratification. Then, when he had tried to talk to her, to get their muddled feelings for each other sorted out, she had verbally attacked him. He had, more or less, fled from her presence in self-defense only to wind up half-frozen in a snowdrift a few hours later. Gary had been found just in time, his body wrapped protectively around a small child.  
  
"That was pretty cold," she commented, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. "I would've thought you'd have worked your way past that by now. It's not like you to hold a grudge."  
  
Gary had taken a few hobbling steps toward the front door. Now he stopped to face her with a smoldering gaze.  
  
"I'm not holding any grudges, Brigatti," he told her in a tightly controlled voice, "but it takes two people, p-preferably two people who are actually talking to each other, to work past something like this. Now, do you want to come inside, or would you rather we scream and yell at each other out here?"  
  
"Lead the way," she shrugged. "It's your place."  
  
With a nod, Gary led the way inside. It was late and business was light. He led her to a table near the back and, after seating her, eased himself into a seat, barely suppressing a sigh of weariness as he did so. With a wave he got Robin's attention and requested coffee for himself and the detective.  
  
"So," he huffed. "Where do we start?"  
  
Brigatti looked around at the sparsely tenanted bar apprehensively. "Could we take this to your office?" she asked hesitantly. "Or someplace more . . . private?"  
  
"This is fine," was Gary's cool reply. "I'd rather we had a few witnesses in case things get ugly. Now, it's late and I've had a busy day. What do you want?"  
  
Under normal circumstances, the fiery detective would have been all over him for talking to her in such a tone. In this instance, however, Toni felt she had it coming. In spades. Still . . .  
  
"For someone who's not holding a grudge," she grumbled, "you don't sound very happy to see me."  
  
"Should I be happy?" Gary asked grimly, keeping his voice low and even with an obvious effort. "You . . ." He looked around to be sure no one was close enough to hear. "You practically rape me, drug me against my will, and then act as if it were all my fault!" he hissed, leaning forward to make himself heard. "Now, maybe I'm missing the big picture here, but I don't see anything for me to be happy about! Do you? The last few times we were in the same room alone, you seemed to enjoy taking me apart. And it always starts out with you wanting to 'work past' whatever happened last time, so excuse me if I'm a little suspicious of any peace overtures where you're concerned."  
  
"Whoa! Who's been feeding you gunpowder!" Brigatti exclaimed in surprise. "You're not usually this . . . hostile. And what happened to your stutter? You sound almost . . . normal."  
  
"I'm w-working on it," Gary snapped. "Now, can we get to the point here? I'm t-tired and climbing those stairs is a royal pain. I'd like to get it over with as soon as possible."  
  
The slender detective waited until Robin had set a couple of cups in front of them and poured the steaming brew. She killed a little more time by fixing her coffee the way she liked, then taking a sip. Finally, she could stall no longer.  
  
"I'm not exactly sure what I wanted," she admitted, staring down at the cup in her hands. "Maybe . . . maybe I thought we needed to talk this out. See if . . . if what we had that night was . . ."  
  
"'We?'" Gary repeated, eyes wide with astonishment. "There was no 'w-we' that night, from what little I recall. You decided to take things to 'the next level' on your own, at a time when I was in no shape to either p-protest or-or ap-prec-i-ate what was hhappening. You stripped away e-every shred of dignity I had left, every p-pretense of free will, and left me w-with nothing! Then, once my head was clear enough that I could th-think straight, I tried to t-talk to you about it. About the . . . the possible consequences of what we'd done. I asked you to marry me, and you made it very c-clear that you could do a lot better than me before storming out! You acted as if I'd insulted you by caring enough to-to even suggest marriage!"  
  
Brigatti took a sip of her warm coffee as she tried to marshal her thoughts. Being on the defensive like this was a new thing for her. Usually, she was the one with the upper hand. Gary must have been terribly hurt to still be this angry. He had every right to be, she realized. Even before that disastrous night she had been brutal, trampling his feelings at every turn. The role-reversal set her teeth on edge, making her feel defensive.  
  
"Can we try to keep this on a civil basis?" she asked stiffly. "I'm trying to apologize, here, for cryin' out loud! I thought . . . maybe . . . we could start over. Take it one step at a time and see where it goes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"Why would you want to b-bother?" Gary elaborated. "It seems to me we've t-taken it as far as we can w-without actually coming to blows."  
  
"Oh, c'mon!" Brigatti snorted derisively. "It hasn't been that bad!"  
  
"Hasn't it?" he asked. "Every t-time we try to have a 'civil' dis-cuss-ion, lately, it ends up with you t-telling me how w-worthless I am before slamming the door in my f-face! For a while there, I was even starting to b-believe it! I had honestly started to believe that I deserved all the crap that was being dumped all over me! H-how's that for an ego trip? But I'm back on my feet, now, thank you very much, and my life is starting to fall back into some old familiar rhythms. I'm actually starting to feel good about myself, Brigatti, and I don't need someone coming along and knocking me down all over again." He looked down to where his own coffee had grown cold. Pushing the cup away impatiently, he licked dry lips as he tried to get his jumbled emotions in order. "I n-need to feel good about myself, Toni," he finally said. "I need to know that I am 'w-worth the effort' of at least getting a relationship s-started. I've been going through hell this p-past year and it doesn't look like it's g-gonna let up any time soon. So don't go tearing me ap-part, then waltz back in four months later and try to 'make nice.' I can't take it."  
  
"I see," was the tiny detective's rigid reply. "Maybe we should table this discussion for a later date," she suggested. "Some time when you're back to normal. Did I just say something funny?"  
  
Gary had let out with a choked laugh, recalling his little 'inside joke.' "D-define 'n-normal.'" he chuckled with a rueful shake of his head. "Toni, things may nnever be 'n-normal' with me. For now, let's just call it a truce until we can both come at this with clear heads. Okay?"  
  
And there it was. An offer of peace, a 'cease fire' as it were, which was probably the best she could hope for at this time. But then, what had she expected? Everything he had said was true. She had turned her own insecurities into a bludgeon and beat him with it unmercifully. She returned his strained smile with a matching one of her own. Then he rose and bid her goodnight. Toni sat there until he had made his painful trek to the office door. It occurred to her, then, that Gary Hobson was a lot more man than she gave him credit for. Probably a lot more than he gave himself credit for.  
  
*******************  
  
Gary awoke at his usual time, 6:30 AM, just in time to hear the cat and the paper hit his doorstep. With a sigh, he levered himself out of bed and fumbled for his cane. Mornings were especially hard for him. His legs felt stiff and leaden after six to eight hours of disuse. Plus, he had not slept well after his little confrontation with Brigatti. True, it had felt good to get everything out in the open. Gary worried that he had been too rough on her, though. He didn't want to drive her away. He just wanted her to respect the fact that he was every bit as human as she was, with all the same rights, responsibilities and fallacies that word entailed..  
  
Truthfully, he was curious to see where their relationship might go. Some part of him wanted to believe they could have something special. The rest of him wanted to cringe at the mere mention of her name. That woman was driving him crazy! Gary found himself torn between wanting to forgive her and start over, and never seeing her again as long as he lived.  
  
"Mrrowwrr!"  
  
"Keep your fur on," Gary grumbled as he shuffled toward the door. It was moments like this that he wished his parents had not decided to rent an apartment across the street. They said it was for their benefit, but he knew they had grown concerned about crowding him. 'Just as well,' he thought to himself. 'I need to be looking after myself more anyway.'  
  
Gary finally opened the door, stepping aside to let the cat trot in with his usual air of aloofness. The young 'Guardian,' as someone had once labeled him, watched as the feline sauntered regally up to the food dish. The orange tabby sat next to the empty container, staring back at him expectantly.  
  
"I'm m-moving as fast as I can," Gary sighed as he reached down for the paper. After a quick glance at the headlines, he tucked the periodical under his arm and closed the door. Once he had the cat taken care of he would sit down and go over it from cover to cover.  
  
A few minutes later, he was sipping at a fresh cup of coffee as he skimmed the headlines in search of trouble. There didn't seem to be anything before ten o'clock. A man would be hit by a taxi while talking to his wife on his cell-phone. An hour later, a woman would be mugged near the fountain in Grant Park, just a few blocks away. That left one case of food poisoning from contaminated seafood later on that evening. Nothing he couldn't handle on his own.  
  
Gary spent half an hour on his new treadmill, which was ten minutes more than he had done the day before. He was still barely able to do more than a lumbering trot, but he was lumbering a little faster each day, or so it seemed.  
  
Showered and shaved with an hour to spare, Gary called a taxi to take him to State St. and 8th. It was time to get to work.  
  
******************  
  
"Too bad they couldn't wait 'til June for this seminar," Dr. Mark Sloan said as their taxi turned off onto South State St. "I would've loved to have been here for the Blues Festival."  
  
"Yeah," Steve sighed. "Me, too. I think that's why they chose April, so we'd actually get some work done." The younger man gazed out his window at the scenery and the people. "Maybe we can at least see a little horseracing. Or a ballgame." He leaned forward as he spied a familiar face. "Isn't that Gary Hobson?" he asked, pointing at a dark-haired figure in jeans and sweatshirt hobbling rapidly up to the intersection just ahead of them.  
  
"Well, I'll be . . . You're right! And he's walking!" the kindly physician exclaimed. "Or limping, at least. I'll have to call Dr. Fraiser and give her the good news. I wonder where he's going in such a . . . "  
  
"Look out!"  
  
The taxi slammed on its brakes, going into a controlled skid and narrowly missing a middle-aged man with a cell-phone pressed against his ear. The man would have been crushed by the cab if not for Hobson grabbing his arm and practically slinging him back onto the sidewalk. Still, the momentum spun Gary half into the street where the vehicle caught him a glancing blow on the left hip. As he tumbled to the pavement, Dr. Sloan leaped from the now stationary cab and rushed to his side, with Steve only a few steps behind him. Gary was already trying to get up, with little success.   
  
"Don't move!" Dr. Sloan snapped. "Wait for the paramedics. You!" he barked at the man Gary had saved. "Call 911! Now! Just hold still, Gary, and let me check you over."  
  
"D-Dr. Sloan?" Gary murmured in surprise. "I thought you guys weren't due in 'til tonight!" He reached a hand up to the silver-haired older man. "Could you help me up? I'm n-not hurt. Just lost my balance."  
  
"How about letting me check you over, anyway," Dr. Sloan insisted. "I like to keep in practice." He gently probed for injuries, not finding much until he got to the left thigh. Gary was unable to suppress a grimace as the doctor's trained hands encountered a painfully tender area. "Lost your balance, hmm? I think an x-ray is in order. Gary, lie still! You'll hurt yourself!"  
  
Gently, but firmly, pushing aside the doctor's restraining hands, Gary levered himself up on his elbows. "That'll take hours and I don't have that much time," he tried to explain. "I have to get to the fountain in G-Grant Park before eleven."  
  
Steve knelt down next to the injured man and placed a hand on his chest. "Easy, pal," he said. "What's so urgent that you want to risk another session in a wheelchair?" Then it hit him. "Is this something like what happened back home? A, ahm, a premonition sorta thing?"  
  
"Sorta," Gary grumbled impatiently. "Look you can take me to the hospital after I do . . . what I gotta do. Please!" He pushed their hands away and struggled to his feet with the help of his cane. After a few limping steps, he was able to convince them that no bones were broken. This time. "Now, can you p-please take me to Grant P-park?" he pleaded. "It's just a few blocks away!"  
  
They got there with fifteen minutes to spare. The three men hung back until the mugger actually laid hands on the woman named in the paper. Steve gave a shout and collared the man before he had gotten ten paces. The woman thanked them profusely as the mugger was taken away in the squad car Mark had flagged down. Moments later, they were on their way to Cook County Hospital.  
  
*******************  
  
"I thought we agreed not to meet like this anymore," Polly quipped as she slid the film into the tray beneath the x-ray table. "People are sayin' we got a 'thing' goin' on."  
  
"Trust me, Polly," Gary replied with a grimace as she turned his left leg outward, "this wasn't in my p-plans when I got up this morning."  
  
The middle-aged tech grinned as she stepped around the lead barrier to the console. "Hold your breath, sweetie," she instructed. A loud beep sounded, followed immediately by permission to breathe. Polly stepped back into the room to retrieve her film. "You can relax now," she told him. "I'll be back in a few minutes."  
  
True to her word, Polly was wheeling Gary back to the ER less than ten minutes later.  
  
"How come you're always here when I get brought in, Polly?" Gary asked. "I think you've x-rayed every inch of me at one time or another."  
  
"After last May," she joked, "I had it put in my job description. 'To be called in whenever G. Hobson needs an x-ray.' Seriously, though, it's just coincidence. Don't go thinkin' we got some 'karmic link' or anything like that."  
  
Gary shook his head with a rueful smile. "I don't know," he chuckled as they approached the treatment room. "Stranger things have happened."  
  
Polly just smiled and shook her head as she helped him back onto the exam table. She then handed the packet of films to Dr. Carter. "Here ya go, Doc," she told him. "Don't lose these."  
  
"You're never going to let me live that down, are you, Polly?" the young resident sighed as he took the films.  
  
"Two hours work on one of the orneriest patients to ever come through these doors?" the normally placid tech responded acidly. "What do you think?" Polly flicked Gary a jaunty wave and a smile, then left to return to her department.  
  
Carter shook his head ruefully as he put the first film on the view box.  
  
"What was that about?" Dr. Sloan asked as he peered closely at the x-ray of Gary's pelvic bones. "Did you lose some films?"  
  
"For a while," Dr. Carter sighed. "A guy tried to hang himself and the rope broke, dropping him down a steep embankment. I ordered a number of films and she did a great job, 'specially as the guy was being a real jerk. Somehow, they got mislaid when the guy was transferred to psychiatric. Polly had to repeat every single film so we could generate a report. She was not happy."  
  
Mark winced in sympathy as he imagined her reaction. "Can't say as I blame her, really," he murmured, engrossed in his study of the film. He took down the first image to replace it with the second view of Gary's hip joint. "I take it they were found later?"  
  
"Someone had slid them under the stretcher pad to be transported with the patient," the youthful physician replied. "Of course, they were found over a week later, so . . . Anyway, Polly assures me that she'll get over it. Eventually." They studied the films of Gary's thigh for a moment, then turned to face the man on the table. "You got lucky this time, Gary," he said. "No broken bones. I was worried about that femur for a moment, but it's holding up well. Still, you're going to have one hell of a bruise."  
  
"I can live with that," Gary quipped. "Does that mean I can put my clothes on now?"  
  
"Sure," Carter nodded, making notes on Gary's chart. "Just stay off your feet for a few days. I know that's not what you want to hear at this time, but that's going to be extremely painful for a while."  
  
"All things considered, Doc, I'll take the p-pain over not feeling anything at all" Gary replied as he slipped into his jeans. "I'll try to stay off my feet as much as p-possible, though," he promised. He tried, and failed, to hide a grimace as he bent down to tie his shoelaces.   
  
Steve stepped forward, gently pushing the younger man onto a stool. "Let me do that," he said. "Just sit still."  
  
"I can do that!" Gary protested, trying to push the detective's hands away.  
  
"Sure you can," Steve grinned. "But it doesn't hurt when I do it. There you go."  
  
"I thought you guys were here for a seminar," Gary grumbled as he levered himself to his feet with a little help from Steve. "Not to baby-sit me."  
  
"We are," Steve replied with a grim chuckle. "We just couldn't pass up a chance to return a favor. You do remember the kid with the snake?"  
  
"I remember," the young barkeep murmured uncomfortably. "C-could we talk about this outside? I need t-to get back home. Th-there's some business I've gotta take care of." Meaning a certain restaurant he had to call before they began preparing tonight's entrees. With any luck, he could come up with a convincing reason for them to alter their menu for one night.  
  
**************** 


	2. A Fateful Act

An hour later, the Sloans had checked into the Hilton, then returned with Gary to McGinty's. The young tavern owner excused himself for a few minutes to make a phone call from his office.  
  
"Hello? Is this Grace's? I'm calling from the . . . the Department of Health," Gary improvised on the spot. "Normally you get your seafood from . . . Yes, yes. No-no, there's no problem with them, but you got a deal on some soft shelled crabs from . . . that's the one! Y-yes. Well, we've gotten some complaints from a few of their other customers. It seems that their latest shipment was caught near a recent oil spill. Exactly! Yes, very sick. Now, without testing, we can't say that your crabs are contaminated, but considering what something like that can do to your reputation . . . That's what we thought, too. I really think that's for the best, don't you? Oh, no. Thank you. Thank you very much. Have a good day."  
  
Gary replaced the receiver on its cradle and sat back with an explosive sigh. That had gone easier than he'd expected. A glance at the paper confirmed that the headline had changed. It also showed that no new disasters had cropped up. Yet. The day was still young. Gary levered himself out of his desk chair with a painful grimace. Carter hadn't been kidding when he said that bruise was going to hurt.   
  
Mark and Steve were enjoying a plate of Buffalo wings and talking with Marissa when he limped back to their table. His partner looked up at the sound of his footsteps, favoring him with a disapproving frown.  
  
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" she asked. "I know Dr. Carter told you to stay off that leg."  
  
"And how would you . . .? Did you two . . .?" His guests shook their heads, mouths still full of chicken. "He called, didn't he," Gary sighed as he slid into his seat. "Doesn't anyone think I have sense enough to t-take care of myself?" he asked in exasperation. "Are you guys gonna nursemaid me for the rest of my life?"  
  
"No," Marissa replied with a knowing smile. "We keep hoping you'll outgrow the need to throw yourself in front of moving vehicles."  
  
"I didn't . . . My cane slipped!" he protested. Gary turned to his two visitors. "You were there! You saw what happened! T-tell her!"  
  
"He's right, Ms. Clark," Dr. Sloan confirmed, swallowing the spicy morsel. "The cane lost traction on the pavement when Gary tried to pull that gentleman back onto the sidewalk. It really wasn't his fault."  
  
"It's never his fault that he gets hurt," Marissa sighed. "That doesn't mean I have to sit here and like it when he does." She took a sip of her coffee, setting the cup down carefully before she continued. "We almost lost you several times last year, Gary. As rough as that was on you physically, it was just as bad for us emotionally! It tore all of us apart to know that you were lying in that hospital bed, fighting for every breath. I had nightmares for months where we found you . . . found you too late."  
  
On impulse, Gary reached out and pulled his partner into a close embrace, his lips brushing her forehead in a chaste kiss.  
  
"I guess I never took the t-time to see it from the flip side," he apologized, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "But I do t-try to be careful, Marissa. Honest."  
  
Dr. Sloan cleared his throat with a loud 'ahem!' "I take it you make a habit of taking risks," he observed with a wry smile. "Is that how you ended up in that wheelchair?"  
  
"No," Gary grimaced as he released his hold on Marissa. "It was stupid. I fell down the s-stairs leading up to my loft. It was late, I was t-tired, and the light blew. Instead of w-waiting 'til daylight, like I should have, I decided to change it right away. The stepstool broke and . . ." He finished by making a swooping gesture with his hand. "I d-don't remember a whole lot after that." he shrugged.  
  
"I do," Marissa shivered. "I remember every single time your heart stopped. Even when you were in the ambulance and Crumb was driving us to the hospital, I could feel it each time you . . . you died. I r-remember them telling us later, at the hospital, that . . . that they couldn't bring you back. A part of me died with you that time. Then, when they told us you were still alive, I cried. Oh Gary, you have no idea what it was like to hear that someone you care about so much has risen from the dead! And then there was the vigil we all kept by your bedside, hoping to be there when you woke up. I remember the tears in your mother's voice when she told us you . . . you couldn't . . . couldn't feel . . ."  
  
Gary tried hard not to let the pain he felt at his partner's little speech show on his face. He had known that everyone had been frightened for his sake, but to hear it put so . . . eloquently . . . He took a napkin and gently wiped a tear from her cheek. "It's okay, Marissa," he murmured. "It's over now." He glanced at the cane leaning against the wall near his chair and made a face. "M-mostly, anyway," he added in a sour tone. That got a choked laugh and a tiny smile from his partner. "That's better. Now, let's see if J-Jake can scare us up something to eat. I'm starved."  
  
"If you get the Buffalo wings," Marissa sniffed as she wiped at the corners of her eyes, "ask for the mild sauce. Jake's on some kind of unholy crusade to give everyone in the city a chance to experience spontaneous combustion first hand. I honestly don't know what's gotten into that man lately. Ever since he found this cookbook of Middle Eastern recipes, his dishes have gotten positively volcanic!"  
  
"Thanks for the warning," Gary shuddered. "That's all I n-need is for one of his entrees to burn a hole through me. I'll have a talk with him later about t-toning it down. Lisa?" he said to the young waitress as she passed. "Could you just ask Jake to fix me a t-turkey club platter? And tell him no surprises," he added hastily.  
  
"You mind if I get the recipe for these hot wings?" Steve asked. "They'll go over great at my restaurant."  
  
"You own a restaurant?" Gary asked, surprised. "I didn't know that! What kind?"  
  
"It's a little place called Barbeque Bob's," Mark replied as Steve had just bitten into another chicken wing. "He and Jesse Travis run it together. It's gotten to be a pretty popular spot."  
  
That got a lively discussion going on the 'ins and outs' of the restaurant business as compared to a sports bar. It also, thankfully, diverted the conversation away from Gary's 'extra curricular' activities. They were able to enjoy their meal, a rare event in Gary's case, and catch up on what was going on in each other's lives.  
  
"Dr. Fraiser needs to know how well you're doing," Dr. Sloan commented. "Have you called her lately?"  
  
Gary shook his head as he sipped at his soft drink. "She c-called last week, though," he replied. "W-wanted me to know she and some ffriends were going to be here for the 'Blues Festival' this year. Promised to look us up. You guys gonna be here?"  
  
"We might," Steve nodded. "I have some 'off' time coming."  
  
"Jesse and Amanda might like it, too," Mark added, almost as an after thought. "If she can find someone to look after the children, that is."  
  
At that moment, Crystal came rushing in with Darlene in tow. They looked around, letting their eyes adjust from the bright sunlight outside before catching site of Gary's party. The two women quickly crossed the room to his table.  
  
"We just heard about your accident!" Darlene exclaimed anxiously. "Are you all right? Nothing broken? How bad were you hurt? Can you . . .?"  
  
"Whoa!" Gary threw both hands up in a 'warding off' gesture. "One qu-question at a time, please! First of all, I'm fine. Just a few bruises. Nothing that's gonna interfere with the rehearsal tomorrow night. Second, how did you find out so quick? It just happened a coupla hours ago."  
  
"Marion has a scanner," the older woman reminded him. "He heard the description and what happened and just knew it had to be you. He called and told me I should find you and check it out. Are you sure you're all right? No trouble walking or getting up and down?"  
  
"I'm fine, honest," Gary sighed. He quickly introduced her to the Sloan's, who already knew Crystal, and explained about the play. "I get to play the v-victim," he added with a wry smile. "Something Crumb feels I'm over qualified for."  
  
Steve shot his father an amused look. "I wonder what gave him that impression?"  
  
Gary caught the looks passing between father and son, bristling slightly. "Oh, very funny," he grumbled. "Ha-ha."  
  
***************************  
  
Early the next morning, Gary dragged himself out of bed with a low groan. His leg felt as if it had been pulped, slammed against a brick wall a few times, then fed through a meat grinder. The day was getting off to a wonderful start.  
  
He had to keep the Paper waiting a few minutes as he struggled to make his way to the door. For the first time in over a week, Gary had to use both canes. 'I can't let Mom 'n' Dad see me like this!' he told himself. 'They'll be all over me!'  
  
The cat was sitting patiently with one paw on the Sun-Times. The orange feline met his bleary-eyed gaze with a concerned 'querr?'  
  
"I'm okay," Gary assured the furry messenger. "Just a little stiff. C'mon. Let's get you fed." He knelt down carefully to retrieve the periodical, straightening with a visible effort. Tucking the Paper under his arm, he followed the cat to the kitchenette.  
  
As the cat scarfed down its breakfast, Gary skimmed the headlines. 'Thank you, God,' he thought with a mental sigh. It looked like a slow day. He had plenty of time for a hot soak and a leisurely breakfast before having to save Carl O'Rourke from two thugs at the racetrack.  
  
**********************  
  
"How's the leg?" Steve asked as he took a seat across from his host.  
  
"S'okay," Gary shrugged. "A little stiff if I sit too long. How'd your seminar go today?"  
  
"Wonderful!" Dr. Sloan replied with a grin. He slid into the seat to Gary's left. "Your Police Department has a marvelous forensics lab. I was especially impressed with the medical examiner's . . . Gary? Are you all . . .? Oh. Oh, my! I'm so sorry! I'd forgotten all about . . .!"  
  
"Th-that's okay, Dr. Sloan," Gary stammered uneasily. All the color had drained from his face at mention of the ME. He tried to cover his reaction by digging into the bowl of chili in front of him. "Um, you . . . you guys should try some of this. I'm thinking of hiring this guy to cover for Jake while he's on vacation next week. It's on the house."  
  
That was all the encouragement the two Californians needed. Two steaming bowls were quickly brought out and set before his two guests.   
  
"S-so, um, you . . . you're enjoying your stay?" Gary asked nervously.   
  
"You have a beautiful city, here," Mark Sloan replied with an engaging smile. He was quick to take the hint. Any change in subject would be welcome. "It's full of history and character. And the people have been wonderful. It's changed so much since I went to school here, yet it's stayed remarkably the same." He took a taste of his chili, making appreciative noises. "This is good. Hire the man."  
  
"If you don't," Steve grinned, "I will. Ask him if he's willing to relocate."  
  
"Not on your life," Gary chuckled, beginning to relax. "Good help is a Godsend these days. So, what're your plans for this afternoon?"  
  
Steve paused to swallow a mouthful of chili before trying to speak. "I have a couple more classes, then we're free for the day. Dad has to deliver a class on . . . what was it? 'Medical History And How It Can Affect The . . .'"  
  
"I get the picture," Gary shuddered. "So you'll be free for a couple of hours before supper? Have you been to the Navy Pier? It's a great place to start, and has some of the best restaurants." Not to mention that he had two 'errands' taking place there that evening.  
  
*************  
  
"I'm beginning to understand Armstrong's viewpoint," Steve growled as he helped Gary out of the car. "I can't believe you made that dive! And less than ten minutes after catching that kid on the Ferris wheel!"  
  
"J-just an-nother d-day in the l-life," Gary stammered, trying to suppress the shivers that ran through his body. The waters of Lake Michigan were still way too cold for him at this time of year. "Y-you 'spected me t-to let the guy d-drown?"  
  
"We were right there, Gary," Mark sighed, bringing up the rear. He stepped up to adjust the blanket around the trembling man's shoulders. "You could've asked for help."  
  
"S-sorry," the younger man shrugged helplessly. "H-habit. N-not used to h-having b-back-up."  
  
As they made their way through the crowded bar, Gary just smiled and waved to the few patrons staring at them with slack-jawed amazement. The stairs were a real trial, but they finally got him into his loft. They soon had him stripped of his wet clothing, helping him get settled into the steaming waters of the Jacuzzi.   
  
"God!" he sighed. "That f-feels great. Thanks, guys."  
  
Mark lowered himself to the edge of the tub, while Steve leaned against the open bathroom door. "You do things like this every day?" the older man asked with obvious concern.  
  
"P-pretty much," Gary admitted with a deprecating shrug. "T-today was k-kinda . . . slow."  
  
Father and son exchanged amused, rueful glances.  
  
"I'm not sure I wanna be here when things get hot," Steve murmured.  
  
Gary slid a little deeper into the swirling waters with a sigh. "Me neither."  
  
**************   
  
"Now, Elaine," Darlene instructed, "this is the scene where 'Vic' confronts 'Angelique' with the prenuptial agreement. "Take it from 'It was his lawyer's idea.' Marion, try not to scowl so much. You're conducting an investigation, not an inquisition."  
  
"I'm not scowling!" the ex-cop grumbled.  
  
"You've scared off three stray dogs and a wino hiding among the props, old boy," Reggie quipped in his cultured tones. He held a hand up to one ear, as if listening intently. "And I do believe that rustling is the sound of the last rodent vacating the premises!"  
  
The look Crumb turned on the smiling man would have soured every drop of milk in the 'Dairy Belt.' "I . . . was . . . not . . . scowling."  
  
"Crumb," Gary chuckled, "when you frown hardened thugs run for cover. You scare the crap out of most of 'em just by looking thoughtful."  
  
"It's all those years you spent perfecting your investigative technique," Mark Sloan spoke up from the second row of seats. "It's hard to turn off thirty years of habit."  
  
"You mean I'm going to look like that when I retire?" Steve asked in mock horror. "That's it! I'm handing in my resignation the minute we get back!"  
  
Crumb looked around, his smoldering gaze flicking from one detractor to the next. Then he broke into a grin, shaking his head ruefully. "Awright! Awright! I'll tone down the 'heat.' A little," he promised. Glancing down at his watch, he scowled purposely. "It's almost midnight. Past your bedtime, Hobson," he growled.   
  
The young barkeep shot him an indignant look. "S'cuse me?" Gary asked. "Since when do I have a curfew?"  
  
"Since you got knocked back onto the 'injured' list the other day," Darlene replied. "Marion's right. You need to get off that leg and take it easy the rest of the night. We can work around your scenes for awhile before we call it a night ourselves." She turned to Crystal. "Dear, would you mind calling him a taxi? The phone is on that wall over there, just above the 'prop' table."  
  
Steve had turned to whisper something to his father when Crumb mentioned the time. Glancing at his own watch, he stood as if to go. "I've got a car outside," he told them. "If someone can give Dad a lift later, I can take you home. I need to be up early tomorrow, anyway," he shrugged.   
  
"Thanks," Gary replied stubbornly, "but I think I'll stick around 'til everyone else leaves."  
  
Crystal favored her boss with a steady, speculative gaze. "Gary," she said sweetly. "Could you come here just a moment?"  
  
Puzzled, Gary levered himself upright with the help of his cane and tried to take a step forward. A quick move on Oscar's part kept him from falling flat on his face. The young barkeep had spent so much time on his feet that night that, when he'd finally gotten a chance to sit down for a little while, his injured hip had stiffened up on him. He was barely able to move it at all!   
  
"Whoa, Gary!" Oscar laughed quietly as he pulled Gary's left arm over his shoulders. At the same time he put his right arm around the other man's waist in a supportive embrace. "Easy, pal. I've got you."  
  
"That's what I thought," Crystal observed clinically. "Go home, boss man," she told him. "Take a hot bath and get some rest. We won't be getting to your next scene for a while anyway."  
  
Embarrassed, Gary nonetheless knew when he was licked. Or whipped, in this case. The moment he'd tried to move that leg, he had known they were right. To add to the indignity, he was forced to lean heavily on Oscar to make it to the side entrance, where Steve was pulling his rental car up. Gary let go of Oscar long enough to grasp the doorframe and ease himself into the passenger seat. He then had to take his injured leg in both hands to lift his foot over the sill. Thanking Oscar for his help, Gary sank back with a sigh as Steve put the car in gear.  
  
"One of these days," Gary grumbled, "I'm gonna go from sunrise to sunset without anything weird happening to me. And without ending up in the nearest trauma center."  
  
"Think you'll live that long?' Steve asked with a dry chuckle.  
  
"Probably not," Gary sighed. "But a guy can dream, can't he?"  
  
Steve just shook his head, a bemused grin lifting the corners of his mouth. His passenger was a true enigma. Gary claimed no psychic abilities. Yet, so far as the detective was able to determine, the younger man was constantly acting on 'premonitions' that were ten times more accurate than anything he had seen or heard on the 'Psychic Hot-line.'   
  
"So how do you do it?" Steve finally asked.   
  
"Do what?" Gary mumbled tiredly. "Get hurt so much? That's easy. I'm on a 'karmic hit-list.' Can't go to the bathroom anymore without raising my insurance rates."  
  
"No," the LA cop chuckled. "How do you get to all these accidents before they happen? How can you know when someone needs help? Do you have a crystal ball or something?"  
  
Gary had been wondering when 'the subject' would come up. Now, if he could just come up with a plausible answer.  
  
"Truthfully?" he sighed. "I-I don't know. Seriously, I'm not psychic. I've never been psychic." Gary kept his eyes on the darkened scenery flashing by his window as they drove. "I don't know what I am anymore. I just know that I'm . . . I'm given a chance, every day, to make things right. To save lives, stop disasters, or just make someone's life a little better than it could've been. Please don't ask me again how I know, because it doesn't make any sense. Just be satisfied that I do, and that I could help you and your dad because of it."  
  
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, huh?" Steve nodded. "I can understand that. How long have you been getting this information?"  
  
Gary looked over at the blonde cop, the corner of his mouth turned up in wry amusement. "You don't let up, do you?"  
  
"I'm a cop, remember?" Steve replied with an easy smile. "I'm supposed to be nosy. Just answer the question, please. You know I can dig through your file and come up with a close guess."  
  
"So why don't you?" Gary asked, playing along.  
  
Steve just shrugged, saying, "It's easier this way?"  
  
"September of '96," Gary chuckled. "That's when it started. I have no idea as to why, or why I was chosen over anyone else."  
  
"You believe you were 'chosen' for this?" Steve asked. "That it wasn't just . . . chance?"  
  
"I know I was chosen," Gary sighed. "That's the hell of it. I just don't know who does the choosing or what criteria they follow in making this choice. Or even how I came to their attention in the first place. And why am I telling you all this? I haven't even told this stuff to the cops I know here!"  
  
Steve pulled his rental car up to the curb in front of McGinty's before answering. He got out of the vehicle, quickly circling around to help Gary lever himself to his feet. Slipping an arm under the younger man's shoulders, Steve supported him in his limping shuffle to the front door.  
  
"I've talked with that Armstrong fella a couple of times," he replied. "About you. The words 'crackpot' and 'delusional' cropped up . . . a lot."  
  
"I'll bet," Gary grunted, trying to force his stiffening thigh into more flexibility. "Sounds like he was being his usual diplomatic self."  
  
"Yyeeah!" Steve nodded. He grasped the door handle, holding the portal open so Gary could enter first. "Anyway," he continued in a lower voice, "I guess I'm willing to take things more at face value. 'Weird' isn't just a word in Los Angeles. It's a way of life."  
  
"Certainly describes mine," Gary mumbled. "Hi, Mom! Business looks good to . . . night. Ho boy. I'm in trouble."  
  
Lois Hobson looked as if storm clouds would scatter before her wrath. "Gary Hobson!" she growled. "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
"This?" Gary asked innocently, shooting Steve a quick glance. "Wh-what this? What'd I do?"  
  
"Don't give me that wide-eyed 'butter-would-melt-in-my-mouth' look," she snapped. "You know darned well what I'm talking about. Just look at you! How could you go off to that rehearsal with your leg in that kind of shape? Do you want to spend another month on that walker? And why didn't you tell your father and me about your accident in the first place? Why did we have to find out over a day after it happened? You could've called! We were just looking at a house, not on the other side of the moon. How can we help you if you insist on keeping us in the dark?"  
  
Gary turned to Steve with a sigh. "You see what I have to put up with?" he asked in a plaintive voice. "Does your dad treat you like this?"  
  
"No," Steve grinned. "But then he comes from a long line of cops. Let's get you upstairs and off that leg. Maybe a long, hot soak would be in order. Loosen up those bruised muscles."  
  
"That sounds good to me," Gary agreed . . . a little too quickly. "That sound good to you, Mom? Good," he added before she could answer. "That's what I'll do then. Just go on up and soak in the Jacuzzi for a while then hit the sack. Wonderful idea, Steve. G'night, Mom. Let's go!" he added to Steve out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
"This discussion isn't finished, young man," Lois replied ominously. "You still haven't answered my questions."  
  
"Can't it wait 'til morning, Mom?" Gary pleaded. "I really am tired and this hurts like a son of gun. Please?"  
  
Gary gave his mother a look of such misery, she found that she just could not hold on to her anger. This was, after all, her only child. It still frightened her how close she had come to losing him forever.  
  
"Go," she sighed. "I'll bring you something for the pain in a few minutes."  
  
"Th-that's okay," Gary stammered, already feeling guilty. Of what, he had no idea. "It doesn't hurt that much."  
  
"Oh? Is that why Detective Sloan is practically carrying you?" she asked in an arch tone. Lois waved them towards the back and the doors that eventually led to the stairs. "Go on. If you don't mind helping him into the tub, Mr. Sloan, I'll help him out of it."  
  
Gary's eyes flared wide as his face reddened from his neck all the way to his hairline. "Mom!"  
  
"Just kidding, dear," Lois smiled impishly. "I'll let your father help you. Now, go on. I'll get you something to eat. Knowing you, supper was the last thing on your mind tonight." With that she turned toward the kitchen, disappearing through the double doors.  
  
The two men stood there for a moment, staring at the swinging doors. Then, with a chuckle and a shake of his head, Steve turned toward the office door with his limping burden.  
  
"You must've had a lively childhood," was his dry comment. "No such thing as a dull moment."  
  
"You have no idea," Gary sighed. "You have absolutely no idea."  
  
************************  
  
The next morning dawned bright and beautiful. Gary rolled onto his back, arms extending in a lazy, luxurious stretch. The aroma of fresh coffee had gently stirred him to wakefulness. Glancing over at the clock, he saw that it still lacked a minute or two of being 6:30. 'That's strange,' he thought. 'The timer on the pot must've kicked in early. Have to check that.'   
  
Thinking that he felt better than he had in weeks, Gary wondered if that hot soak last night might have relaxed him better than he had thought. For once he had gotten through an entire night without any dreams he could recall, either good or bad. With any luck, the episode with Savalas was finally behind him for good.  
  
Just as the alarm sounded, followed within seconds by the familiar sounds from the hallway, Gary swung his legs off the side of the bed. He was immediately reminded why he shouldn't have done that. Pain shot up his left leg as the sudden movement sent a violent protest through his stiff, sore muscles. 'Oh, God!' he thought. 'Did I get hit by a taxi or a bus?' Levering himself up with more effort than he had needed in weeks, Gary reached for his cane. 'It didn't hurt this bad the morning after it happened!' Leaning heavily on the aluminum support, he managed to limp painfully to the door. The cat stared up at him with a look that seemed to ask, 'What took you so long?'  
  
"Yesterday you were so concerned. Today it's business as usual?" he asked the orange feline who sat perched on tomorrow's 'Sun-Times.' "Do you even care how much pain I'm in?"  
  
The cat just looked at him and made a questioning noise that sounded suspiciously like 'So?' The orange tabby then stood, gave a long, languorous stretch, and sauntered into the room. With a sigh, Gary eased down carefully until he was able to grasp the paper. He was only able to accomplish this feat by keeping his stiffened left leg out behind him, most of his weight balanced on the right. Getting down was easy, if precarious. Getting up, however . . . He grasped the doorframe in near panic as he almost toppled over! By some miracle, he managed to pull himself upright without dropping the mystic periodical.   
  
"No wonder I slept so good last night," he grumbled as he hobbled over to the kitchenette. "You were trying to lull me into . . . what? A false sense of security? Were you setting me up just to knock me back down? Some friend."  
  
The orange tabby just sat by his food dish and eyed Gary dispassionately. He made no pretense of understanding what this odd human was babbling about. After all, he just delivered the darn thing. The silly human had been given almost a whole day to get over it! And why was his food dish still empty? The cat looked at the bowl, then back to Gary, making a faint questioning 'querr?'  
  
"Slave driver," the irritated human murmured half under his breath. He hobbled painfully back to the kitchenette. "Just give me a minute."   
  
Gary popped the lid off a can of cat food, setting it down next to the dish. At first, the cat looked offended at this sloppy service. Then the aroma overcame his objections and the feline dug in with dainty abandon. Fancy Feast Chicken! His favorite!  
  
Gary checked the timer on the coffee maker as he poured himself a cup. Someone had reset it to start brewing at 6:15 instead of 6:30. He usually preferred to shower before that first cup, not after. 'Now who would mess with my coffeepot?' he wondered. 'And why?' Then he recalled hearing his dad puttering around in the loft just before Bernie had helped him out of the Jacuzzi. Which meant he was probably on his way over to help Gary once more. 'Oh, Lord!'  
  
It took Gary a few minutes to get the tub ready, undress and slip into the swirling water. He had been in the water just long enough to start feeling relaxed when he heard a hesitant knock on his door.   
  
"Gary?"  
  
"Back here, Dad," the younger man called out. "I'm in the tub. C'mon back."  
  
Bernie Hobson poked his head around the bathroom door to see his son leaning nonchalantly back in the Jacuzzi, cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other.  
  
"Your mother wanted me to see if you needed any help this morning," the senior Hobson stated with a grin. "I guess you don't. How's the leg?"  
  
"A little stiff," Gary lied with a shrug. "Not too bad." He kept his eyes glued to the paper, carefully avoiding his dad's searching gaze.  
  
"You wouldn't lie to your old man, would you?"  
  
This time Gary did look up, meeting his father's gaze with an expression of pained surprise. He couldn't quite pull it off.  
  
"Hurt like a son-of-a-gun this morning, didn't it," Bernie nodded sagely. It was not phrased as a question. He sank down on the side of the tub as Gary nodded reluctantly. "Ya gotta let us help ya once in a while, kiddo," he added. "That's what parents do best."   
  
"I know that, Dad," Gary sighed. "Honest. It's just . . ."  
  
"Feeling a little hemmed in?" Bernie asked. "Like a bird in a cage?"  
  
"More like the last of an endangered species," Gary grumbled. He cautiously lay the paper aside, careful to avoid getting the pages wet. "It's not that I don't appreciate your concerns," he added in a more conciliatory tone. "And I know I've scared everyone half to death any number of times since the accident. But you guys can't keep protecting me! And you can't keep . . . chewing me out in front of other people for taking chances! I'm not a kid anymore, Dad. I'm a grown man, with grownup responsibilities."  
  
"That's an understatement!" Bernie chuckled. Then his expression sobered as he considered his son's words. "I take it your mom embarrassed you last night."  
  
"Oh, you have no idea!" Gary chuckled humorlessly. "I thought she was gonna ground me! Started snapping at me like I'd just skipped class or something! In front of Steve, the staff, everyone! This is my home and my business! I have to face these same people everyday. I-I wanted to just . . . crawl into a hole and pull it in after me."   
  
The look Gary gave his gave his father was full of so much pain and bewilderment, the senior Hobson was hard pressed not to reach down and hug him. It was hard to resist the urge to tell his son that they would find some way to make it all better.  
  
"Why does she do that to me, Dad?" he asked in a pained voice. "Why does she act as if I'll never be able to look after myself? A-as if letting go of the apron strings will kill me?"  
  
"If I could answer that question, kiddo," Bernie sighed, "both of our lives would be a whole lot simpler. I can only guess that motherhood comes as a package deal. Once you have a kid, you can't quit worryin' about 'em. It was just your luck to be an only child. If we'd been able to have a coupla more, maybe she wouldn't 've been so focused on you." He glanced down at the roiling waters. "You soaked long enough? Or you plan on imitating a prune?"  
  
"Hunh? Oh!" Gary gave his head a rough shake, jerking himself back to the present. "I guess I'm ready to get out." He gave his dad a red-faced look. "Could you, um . . . ?" He made a little twirling motion with his hands.  
  
"You don't need my help?" Bernie grinned, secretly enjoying his son's discomfort.   
  
"Dad!"  
  
"Just asking!" Bernie chuckled as he turned around.  
  
"If I do," Gary groused, "I'll be sure to ask. I promise." A few minutes later, almost fully dressed, he held still as Bernie tied the laces on his left shoe. The right had presented no problems, but the left was still stiff and sore. "I honestly don't think the taxi hit me hard enough to cause this," Gary grumbled. "It must've happened when I hit the pavement. "  
  
"However it happened," Bernie replied as he straightened up from his task, "that's a hell of a bruise. Half your thigh looks like a bunch of grapes. I'm surprised we didn't notice you limping more, yesterday. Does it still hurt to walk on it?"  
  
"At first," Gary admitted. "It's okay after I've been moving around a while. The whirlpool helped. Honest, Dad. I'm fine. There's not much going on with the Paper today. A little incident at the zoo, a traffic accident, and a couple of kids get shot stealing a car. I'm gonna be kinda busy this afternoon, but I should be limbered up by then," he added with a shrug.  
  
"You don't . . .?" his dad began hopefully.  
  
"Dad," Gary sighed, "I can't get back up to speed if I keep depending on everyone else to do my job. Not that I don't appreciate all you and Mom 've done," he was quick to add. "You've just got to trust me to know my own limits. Especially when I overdo it. I have to keep 'pushing the envelope' or I'll stagnate."  
  
Bernie eased down on the bed next to Gary with a sigh. "It's because of those 'limits' that we worry so much, Gar," he told his son. "They're changing everyday. We never know how you're gonna feel one day to the next! Are you up. Are you down. Do you need us or are we in the way! We never know unless you tell us. And you won't tell us 'cause you're afraid of hurtin' our feelings! You have got to talk to us, kiddo. You have to let us know what you need. That's one of the reasons we got that apartment, so we can be here for ya."  
  
"I-I'll keep that in mind, Dad" Gary replied with a sad little grin. He grasped his cane and levered himself to his feet. After a couple of minutes pacing back and forth, he could feel the stiffness begin to ease up. A little. "Well, I think I have time for a quick breakfast before I need to go to the zoo," he said with a sidelong glance at his dad. "Would you 'n' Mom care to join me?" he asked hopefully.  
  
Springing to his feet with a strength and energy that Gary envied, Bernie slipped an arm around his son's shoulders. "I never turn down a free meal," he said with a grin. "While we're at it, maybe we can get your mom to loosen the apron strings a little."  
  
"God, I hope so," Gary sighed. "They're beginning to feel like a noose!"  
  
*****************   
  
"Why didn't you tell me all this last night?" Lois Hobson grumbled as she pushed her half-eaten breakfast aside. "Instead, you let me go to bed feeling . . ."  
  
"Like a concerned mom?" Gary finished for her, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He took a sip of his coffee, stalling for time as he considered his answer. "I didn't want to cause a scene last night," he finally told her. "Especially not in front of Steve. Honestly, Mom, I don't expect you to stop worrying. As someone reminded me recently," he added with a sidelong glance at his dad, "it comes with the territory. Just . . . don't scold me like a child. Please? And stop waiting on me hand and foot. Let me stumble around on my own. I can't . . . I'll never get back on my feet if you two keep trying to do everything for me. It's not that I don't appreciate all you've done, everything you've given up for my sake, but what do I do when you're not here for some reason? If I get used to leaning on others, then I'll never be able stand on my own!"  
  
Lois chewed daintily on her lower lip as she considered his impassioned plea. "I guess I forgot about that part," she admitted ruefully. "We raised you to be a man, but it's hard to let go of my little boy. Especially after everything that's happened."  
  
"You don't have to let go," Bernie told her, gently covering her hand with his own. "Just don't hold him so tight! Let the kid breathe!"  
  
"Exactly!" Gary chimed in. "I'm not trying to shove you aside, just . . . just asking, no, begging. Begging you not to hold me back. Let me make mistakes. Let me stumble and fall a few times. How else am I ever going to learn what my limits are? And please, whatever else you do, please don't scold me in front of my staff! It's hard enough to keep their respect as it is!"  
  
"Oh dear," she sighed. "I did get a little rough last night, didn't I?"   
  
"Mom, you were two words away from grounding me last night," Gary gently reminded her. "If I hadn't already been headed that way, you would've sent me to my room! Without supper!"  
  
"Go on! I wasn't that bad! Was I?" she added uncertainly. Lois gazed down at the table as she recalled everything she had said the night before. Gary just sat back and watched her. "Umm, maybe you're right. I was so angry that you hadn't told me about your accident. I mean, we're right across the street and we were the last to find out! Couldn't you have just picked up a phone and told us?"  
  
"I should have," Gary admitted. "All I can say is, I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you with something that had already happened. It wasn't like you could do anything about it after the fact."  
  
"True enough," Bernie sighed. "Look, we'll try to be less overbearing if you'll try to keep us in the loop, so to speak. Don't make us find out secondhand what's happening to you. Deal?"  
  
"Deal," Gary quickly agreed. "Now, um, if you don't mind, could I get a lift to the zoo? I have to stop an attendant from falling off a broken ladder and into the lion enclosure."  
  
"No problem," Bernie shrugged. "I can drop you on my way to get the truck serviced. Sure you don't need any help?"  
  
"Pretty sure," Gary assured them, struggling to his feet. He leaned heavily on his cane as he turned for the door. "If we hurry, I can get there before he even gets on the thing."  
  
****************  
  
Enrique Vasquez was unfolding the old wooden stepladder just as Gary arrived at the zoo. He quickly pointed out the crack in the upper rung that would have given way just as the zoo employee was reaching over to snag a bit of trash someone had tossed onto a tree limb. The man thanked Gary profusely and then went in search of another ladder. A few minutes later, Gary was in a cab and headed for his next destination.  
  
****************  
  
Ted Waltham had been sitting in his blue Mercedes, waiting patiently at the traffic light for a chance to make a right hand turn. To his consternation, a dark-haired young man leaning heavily on an aluminum cane chose the moment just before the light changed to make his laborious journey across the street. Before the poor guy had taken six steps, a green BMW ran the light, just missing him by a hair. Apparently unnerved by the close call, the young man stumbled back to the curb. He shook his head sadly, and turned to go back the way he had come. The driver of the Mercedes paused only a moment before going on his way. Apparently the guy was alright. Still, it had been a close call . . . for both of them. If he had not had to wait for the other man to cross, that BMW would have creamed his Mercedes!  
  
****************  
  
Gary was outwardly calm as he negotiated the few blocks toward his next task. Inside, he was still shaking. That had called for split second timing and he hadn't been sure he could pull it off safely. If he had started too late, the Mercedes would still have been too far into the intersection to be missed. Too soon, and it would have been Gary who was struck! In his present condition he really needed to be more careful. Glancing down at the Paper, he saw that the headline had changed to something about a museum exhibit. A few blocks down, he could see the same car that had just missed him being pulled over by the Chicago PD. 'Good,' he thought to himself. 'Maybe that joker will slow down for awhile.'  
  
A few blocks later, he spotted the two boys he was there to save from themselves. Joey Iverson and Chris Jenkins were just looking to have some fun according to a third friend who had backed out at the last minute. Two thirteen-year-old boys trying to grow up too fast. They eyed him watchfully as he limped past them and up to the corner. He shot them a curious look, then glanced at his watch, as if waiting for someone. They weren't going to do anything as long as a witness was close by. All he had to do was stand around looking bored until the owner of the car emerged from his meeting and drove off. Five minutes later, just enough time for the boys to have worked up the courage to try the door, if Gary had not been watching, a very angry man came storming into the parking lot. Paying his fee, the man stalked toward the car the boys were standing near as if he were looking for trouble. He glared daggers at the two boys, who quickly decided to be somewhere else. Baleful gray eyes watched them as they disappeared from view, then turned on the only other witness to his anger.  
  
"What are you looking at?" he snarled.  
  
"An accident waiting to happen if you don't get a hold of yourself," was Gary's calm reply. "I take it you're having a bad day?"  
  
"What would you care what kind of day I'm having?" Eric Mason snapped. "And what business is it of yours, anyway?"  
  
"None at all," Gary shrugged. If he let it go like this, he feared that this guy could still end up as a headline. "You just look like you need to get a few things off your chest. I'm not going anywhere at the moment, and I've been told I'm a good listener. What have you got to lose?"  
  
Twenty minutes later, a much calmer Eric Mason got into his car and drove off. He even offered the good Samaritan a ride. Knowing that Mason was going in the opposite direction of McGinty's, Gary graciously declined. Looking at his watch, Gary headed for the nearest El station. With any luck he'd have time for a leisurely lunch before heading over to the Sun-Times to stop an accident in the presses.  
  
************  
  
"I just had to keep this rookie reporter from getting his jacket caught in the rollers," Gary moaned. He settled back into the easy chair with a sigh. "Then I hopped a cab to the W-Washington/Wells Street El station and got there in plenty of time to stop T-Tiffany Masters from falling off the platform. She, of course, thought I was some kind of p-pervert and hit me with her purse. Next thing I know, I'm flat of my b-back with her on top of me. She's getting ready t-to hit me again, but someone pulls her off. Seems he saw her f-foot start to slip, but was too far away to stop her. Anyway, he explained that I'd just saved her life, she apologized, and I made my usual graceful exit. Thanks, Mom." He took the ice bag she held out to him and pressed it to his swollen jaw. "I think she was a karate instructor. Man! Could she h-hit!"  
  
Bernie pulled the bag away long enough to get a good look at his son's discolored face. "She sure laid one on you!" he observed with an appreciative whistle. "What happened to your eye?"  
  
"Oh, that was later," Gary mumbled. "After I escaped from the 'karate queen,' I had to hurry to make my connections to the Bronzeville station and got to Illinois Tech just in time to stop this first year student from getting electrocuted. For which, in his undying gratitude, he decked me for messing up his experiment. His instructor chews him out for sloppy procedure and he comes at me again for getting him in trouble. Only I'm already halfway out the door. I hobbled back to the El as fast as I c-could and came straight home. Th-that . . . that pretty much covers it."  
  
"Well," Lois sighed, "you did say to let you stand or fall on your own. I just didn't think you meant it quite so literally."  
  
"At the time, neither did I," Gary sighed. He shifted the icepack so that it covered his black eye. "At least I didn't cause anything else to crop up. The Paper doesn't mention anything more threatening than a thunderstorm later tonight and there's nothing I can do about the . . . Oh, man!"  
  
"What?" both his parents chorused.  
  
"Rehearsal! How can I show up for rehearsal looking like this?" he asked. "Crumb already thinks I'm an accident waiting to happen. And the others treat me like I'm gonna break if they look at me wrong. Showing up like this is not gonna help!"  
  
"Well, I'm afraid you're stuck," Lois chuckled. "You'd better start thinking up a good excuse for those bruises, hon. Steve will be here to pick you up any minute."  
  
Bernie strolled to the front window and looked out. "Correction," he said. "He just pulled up. Better think fast, kiddo."  
  
"They're breaking out the props tonight," Gary sighed miserably. "We're rehearsing the scene where I first get shot."  
  
"Why does that little tidbit make me feel so nervous?" Lois wondered.   
  
*************  
  
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Steve wondered as he helped Gary out of the car. "You really don't look so good. Maybe we could have Dad take a look at you."  
  
"I'm fine," Gary insisted. He got a firm grasp on his cane and limped painfully to the theater door. "It looks worse than it feels."  
  
"That's not very comforting," the L.A. cop grinned. "You look like hell."  
  
Gary shot him a baleful look as he opened the side door. Steve, shocked to see the bruises, had demanded to know what had happened. The young bar owner had simply continued out the door, muttering something that sounded like, 'I don't wanna talk about it.' "Thank you so much for your ast-tute observation, Detective Sloan," he grumbled in a surly tone. "Seriously, Steve, I'm fine. It only hurts a little."  
  
"I might believe that if you didn't sound like 'Rocky's' sparring partner," Steve cracked. "Keep this up and they may have to recast your part."  
  
"Too late," Gary sighed as he headed for the stage area. "Chris is my understudy. Hi, guys!"  
  
"Hi, Gary. Steve," Darlene greeted the two latecomers warmly. "Guess who showed up today? Just when we had almost given up trying to find a stage ma . . . Oh, my God! Gary! What happened to your face! Oh, you poor boy!"  
  
Gary quickly found himself surrounded by his concerned cast mates and, to his astonishment, Bonnie Rousseau! Bonnie had been the reason many of them had met in the first place. She had been their acting coach and director/stage manager in a production of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' a couple of years before. Until another director had exposed her as a con artist. She had confessed everything to Gary, then the others, made full restitution to them and had gone on to stage manage their amateur play. Even without costumes, it had been a hit. Now she was back, having finally responded to their invitation to be part of Crumb's mystery.  
  
"You haven't changed a bit," she sighed, turning his face to the light for a better look. "It's a good thing you run your own business."  
  
"Why's that?" Gary asked.  
  
"Because you'll kill yourself before you win your first 'Tony,'" she told him with a gentle smile. "What happened?"  
  
"He doesn't want to talk about it," Steve remarked with a wry grin. "At least, that's the answer I've been getting."   
  
"Let me take a look," Dr. Sloan offered. He stepped up and grasped Gary's chin in a firm, but gentle, grip. Turning the younger man's face into the light, he examined the dark bruises closely. "You've been keeping ice on this?"  
  
"As soon as I got home," Gary assured the elderly physician. "And aspirin for the pain. Really, I'm okay. It looks a lot worse than it feels."  
  
"I'll have to take your word on that," Mark smiled. "Well, you're doing all the right things for this kind of injury, but it wouldn't hurt to take it easy for a while. You might want to skip rehearsal tonight."  
  
"Not a chance," the young barkeeper replied, smiling carefully. The movement tugged painfully at his bruised facial muscles. "This is the first night we get to break out the props. You can't ask me to miss out on that!"  
  
They argued back and forth for several minutes, until Gary was able to convince them that he could say his lines and fall on command. They came up with an agreeable compromise when Oscar brought out a thick foam mat and laid it behind the desk. He carefully arranged it so that Gary's fall was cushioned as much as possible.  
  
"It's not that we doubt you, Gary," Bonnie assured him. "We just don't want to see you get hurt anymore."  
  
"You think I wanted all these injuries?" Gary asked incredulously. "Do I look . . .? Never mind," he sighed. "I'm not sure I wanna finish that question."  
  
"Why not?" Mark asked, a glint of amusement in his friendly blue eyes.  
  
"Because I really don't wanna hear the answer," Gary told him. "Okay. The floor is padded. The gun is loaded with blanks. The 'shooter' is going to be at least ten or more feet away. Now, can we get down to business, or should I break out that football gear I saw in the prop room?"  
  
"Ooo! That's a good idea," Darlene exclaimed. "The helmet, especially. Don't you think so, Marion? Protect his poor face from . . ."  
  
"Darlene!" Gary's voice rose in protest. "C'mon, guys! Gimme a break, here!"  
  
Darlene laughed, going up to her young friend and giving him a gentle hug. "Just teasing," she told him. "We love to pick on you, dear. You're so . . . so . . . "  
  
"Pickable?" Gary supplied with a sad-eyed grin.  
  
"Innocent," Bonnie corrected him. She slipped an arm through his as she led him on stage, to his mark. "You are such a nice person," she elaborated, "that you insist on finding good in everyone else. That's one of the things we all love about you."  
  
Gary was beginning to blush furiously at the off-hand praise. He ducked his head to hide his rising color as he took his place behind the desk.  
  
Three and a half hours later, Gary was beginning to regret his stubbornness. He had been up and down from behind the desk so often that his legs were beginning to feel like lead, and he'd been 'shot at' by everyone in the cast but Crumb and Crystal. It was Darlene's idea that they would not reveal the 'killer's' identity, even to the cast, until opening night. As a result, every 'suspect' had been required to read through the scene, then fire the gun in Gary's general direction. Each of them had to practice until they were able to play the part with some conviction. The young 'victim' had grown to deeply appreciate the thick padding Oscar had found. He had hit the floor so many times that, even with the mat, he was beginning to feel the effects of the repeated impacts.  
  
It was now Crystal's turn to fire the heavy automatic. Oscar picked up the extra clip that had lain on the table since rehearsal began, snapping it into the pistol with an ominous click! For some reason, the sound made every hair on the back of Gary's neck stand at attention. 'Something is very wrong here,' he thought. On an impulse, he looked at the Paper. He had laid it on the desk so that he would have something to do with his hands while the others were using him for target practice. Gary quickly scanned the headlines as the young actress prepared herself, shifting the gun from hand to hand. He tried to keep his expression neutral so no one would suspect what he was actually doing. There was nothing on the front page of any interest to him.   
  
Crystal strode briskly onto the stage, the heavy pistol clutched nervously in both hands. She delivered her first line when he gave her a startled look, speaking her character's name. As he stood, she lifted the gun until it was level with his heart. Gary threw both hands up in a defensive gesture as the pistol gave three flat cracks. On cue, he flung himself backwards and onto the mat.  
  
"That was great, Crystal," Bonnie said encouragingly. "I can see you've handled guns before, but you had it pointed all over the place. You have to at least aim it in Gary's general direction. Let's try this one more time." She clapped her hands briskly. "Places! Places everyone!"  
  
The feeling of apprehension was becoming almost unbearable as Gary took his place behind the desk. His hands shook slightly as he opened the Paper. There was nothing important on the next two pages. Again, he struggled to his feet as Crystal strode purposefully to her mark. His hand finished turning the page as he faced his young friend. Glancing down, his eyes widened as the small headline leaped off the page at him. How could he have missed that?  
  
LOCAL BAR OWNER SLAIN IN FREAK SHOOTING ACCIDENT.  
  
His head snapped up to meet the eyes of the young waitress, his own widening in alarm. As if from a distance, he heard himself say, 'No! Don't!' As Crystal leveled the gun at her employer's chest, he brought both hands up in the same gesture he had pantomimed so many times that night. This time, however, a panicked cry escaped his lips as he threw himself to his left. His cry was drowned out by the earsplitting roar of the gun. A sledgehammer blow struck him in the right shoulder, lifting him off his feet and spinning him halfway around before it knocked him into the 'wall' behind him. Gary was flung against the barrier, both of them falling with a crash onto the stage floor beyond. Dimly, he heard Crystal scream, the sound of the pistol striking the hard wood flooring. From somewhere, miles away, he heard the alarmed cries of his cast mates as they rushed to his aid. All this he was aware of as if it were happening to someone else.   
  
There was no pain. Not yet. The shock of the impact had left his shoulder feeling numb, heavy. He was finding it hard to breathe. To focus. Blindly, Gary reached out with his left hand, trying to find something by which he could pull himself upright.   
  
******************  
  
Crumb was the first to reach Gary. He ripped his jacket off and wadded it into a tight bundle, pressing it hard against the large crimson stain spreading down his young friend's chest. Hobson was making faint grunting/mewling sounds of a nature the ex-cop had heard too many times before as his left hand clutched desperately at Crumb's shirtsleeve. His eyes, clear, alert and frightened at first, were beginning to glaze over as his blood soaked into Crumb's jacket. A moment later, the hand fell away as Gary slipped deeper into shock.  
  
"Keep that pressure steady," Dr. Sloan urged. In spite of being in the third row, he and Steve had been less than three steps behind the big detective. He gently, but firmly probed the back of Gary's shoulder. "No exit wound. Steve, call 911. Is there a first aid kit any . . . Good." He took the plastic kit from Oscar and tore open a package marked 'pressure bandage.' He quickly removed crumb's jacket, replacing it with the thick gauze pad. He then put the wadded up jacket back in place, instructing its owner to keep applying pressure. "Get some blankets," he instructed Darlene and Sophie. "Or coats. Anything to keep him warm. He's going into shock. Steve! Any word on that ambulance?"  
  
"They'll be here in five minutes," his son assured him. "How bad is it?"  
  
"I think the bullet hit an artery," Mark murmured as he looked into Gary's half-open eyes. The younger man's pupils had dilated until the color of his eyes could not be seen. "Gary! Gary! Stay with us, son! Just hold on! Help is on the way." The younger man gave a weak nod by way of reply, obviously fighting just to keep his eyes open.  
  
The doctor glanced over to where Crystal and Bonnie were holding onto each other, staring at the grim tableau, unable to look away. He knew that they, too, would need help shortly. Right now they had to focus on the more immediate problem.  
  
*********************  
  
Gary's breathing was coming in short, ragged gasps as the initial shock of the bullet's impact wore off. He could feel the pain, now, but it was as if it were coming from a great distance. The firm pressure his friend was applying should have had every nerve screaming. Gary hardly felt it as his life's blood soaked into the coarse material. Time became distorted as the young barkeep slid in and out of consciousness. He was only dimly aware of the new arrivals as they peeled off the saturated bandage, cutting away his shirt and faded denim jacket. The pressure returned as fresh bandages were applied to his now throbbing shoulder. A mask of some type was pressed over his mouth, forcing cool, pure oxygen into his laboring lungs. There was a brief, sharp pain in his left arm, then a sensation of warmth deep within the flesh of that appendage. The rest of him was cold. So cold. He must have managed to convey that information, because a blanket appeared from out of nowhere to cover the exposed areas of his chest.   
  
He was aware of being lifted onto a softer surface, then nothing as his mind took the downward spiral into oblivion.  
  
*******************  
  
"I'll stay with Gary," Dr. Sloan told his son. He gestured at the two women huddled miserably off to the side. Crystal looked as if she were going to pass out. Bonnie did not appear to be in any better shape. "You might want to bring those two in to be looked at. Crystal, especially." He looked over at Crumb who was still clutching his bloody jacket in both hands. The big ex-cop was staring after the retreating stretcher as if he were considering going with his younger friend. "Keep an eye on him, too."  
  
"Just look after your patient, Dad," Steve replied. "I'll take care of things here." As his father hurried to catch up with the gurney, the blonde detective turned toward the two women who were still standing in the exact same spot.   
  
Crystal looked as if she were on the verge of collapse. Her blue eyes stared straight ahead into the distance, but she wasn't seeing anything but the spray of blood as the bullet had struck the all too vulnerable flesh of her friend's shoulder. Her breath was coming in short, whimpering little gasps. Bonnie did not appear to be in much better shape as she tried to guide the distraught girl to a nearby chair.  
  
"They were blanks," Crystal was whimpering. "Just blanks! I-it shouldn't 've been that loud!" Her lovely features twisted into a painful grimace as tears streamed down her face. "I killed him! Ohmigod! Ohmigod! I've killed Gary!"  
  
"He's not dead," Steve told her as he took her other arm. Between the two of them, they managed to get her into the chair. "You hit him in the shoulder, not the chest. People survive wounds like that all the time. Want to see my scars? Now, just sit right here a moment. Can someone get Ms. Rousseau a chair?"   
  
As soon as both women were seated, still clutching desperately at each other, Steve bent to examine the gun. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves he had taken from the first aid kit, he picked up the still smoking weapon and ejected the clip. He knew this particular type of pistol held one in the chamber and seven more in the clip. Crystal had fired the gun four times. That left four. Steve popped the top bullet out of the clip and studied it carefully.   
  
"What've ya got?"  
  
Steve looked up to see Crumb kneeling down to look at the objects in the younger cop's hands. He couldn't help but notice that the older man was still holding his blood-soaked jacket. Wordlessly, Lieutenant Sloan held up his discovery.  
  
It was not a blank. However much it looked like a blank cartridge, it was too heavy to be nothing more than a shell with a little powder and a cardboard plug. Someone had loaded the rest of the clip with live rounds.  
  
******************  
  
He was first aware of the voices. They drifted in and out as he fought to locate the source of this intrusion. At times, he could almost understand what they were saying. Something about a severed artery and . . . something or other. More blood. Someone was calling for more blood. Why? He had plenty, didn't he? What was that smell and why did he feel so heavy? So . . . tired? Confused, he tried to make sense of the voices. Shot? Who was shot? Why? When did . . .? His curiosity ebbed as the darkness closed in once more.  
  
***************  
  
"How did live rounds get into that clip?" Crumb growled as he scrubbed at the blood on his hands. "The gun was a stupid prop! You never use live ammo in a theater prop! Any fool could tell ya that," he added in a desultory tone. "Christ. It hasn't even been a year since we found him, more dead than alive, on those blasted stairs." He dried his hands on a paper towel, throwing it into the wastebasket with more force than was necessary. "I'm tired of washin' that kid's blood off my hands."  
  
"He's hardly a kid," Steve Sloan reminded him from his position by the door. "He's thirty-five years old."  
  
"That's still a kid in my book," the ex-cop grumbled. "He's way too young to have to go through this kinda crap. He's a barkeep, for cryin' out loud! A boy scout! A wide-eyed innocent! What's he doin' gettin' shot twice in less than six months?"  
  
Having no answer for the older man's angry questions, Steve shook his head and looked over to where a forensics technician was dusting the prop table and everything on it for prints. The gun, clip, and remaining bullets were on their way the crime lab to undergo similar scrutiny. Darlene had taken Crystal and Bonnie to the hospital. Bonnie was badly shaken, feeling intense guilt over her insistence that the young actress fire the gun one more time. Crystal, however, was in shock. The last they had heard was that she had been sedated and kept for observation. Both of the older women had chosen to remain with her.  
  
Oscar approached them from the direction of his office. "Your dad just called," he told them, a relieved grin on his face. "Gary's out of surgery and it looks good. Man! When I heard that shot, and saw him hit that backdrop, I just knew he was a goner!"  
  
"That makes two of us," Crumb sighed, relief washing over him like a wave. "I tell you, that kid's gonna give me an ulcer. Did you see anyone near that table that shouldn't 've been?"  
  
"That's hard to say, Crumb," the theater manager sighed. "Everyone used that phone from time to time, even Gary. Oh, and someone's been leavin' the side door open. I usually keep it locked, but Gary and Crystal both told me it's been open almost every time they've been here. Crystal said Gary kept pulling it shut, but it was cracked open a coupla times when they left, too."  
  
Crumb and Steve Sloan exchanged ominous glances. This was beginning to sound less and less like an 'accident.'   
  
"It was unlocked tonight," Steve remarked grimly. "That's how we came in."  
  
"What are you two lookin' so grim about?" Paul Armstrong asked. He had been questioning the other cast members in a back room. "Did the hospital call?"  
  
Steve quickly brought him up to-date on Gary's condition, then had Oscar repeat what he had told them about the door.  
  
"Does Gary have any enemies that you know of?" Steve asked. "Someone that hates him enough, or thinks they have a good enough reason to kill him?"  
  
"It's possible," Armstrong sighed. "He's helped put away a few real 'hard-cases.' Some involved in 'organized' crime. Even a couple of home grown terrorists."  
  
"He helped me get the drop on a guy torchin' his own businesses a coupla weeks before his accident," Crumb added thoughtfully. "Don't know what he expected to do with that relic he pulled out of the wall, but it distracted the guy long enough for me to disarm 'im. That bozo turned out to be pretty well 'connected,' too. He could've set up somethin' like this. Even from prison."  
  
"And don't forget that embezzler he and Miguel Diaz caught a few months before that," the black detective nodded. "For such a nice guy, Hobson seems to tick off the worst kind of people."  
  
*****************  
  
Voices again. And light. There was definitely light this time. Some of the voices sounded . . . familiar. It was hard to sort them out as they seemed to be talking in hushed whispers. Slowly his memory began to return, along with the pain that his mind had been trying to block out. Something had happened to him. Again.   
  
A barely audible moan escaped his dry throat as his stomach began doing strange gymnastic thingies. Swallowing convulsively, he fought to control his rising gorge. The stale/sour taste in his mouth didn't help matters at all.  
  
Gradually, he was able to separate the low murmur into distinct, individual voices. There was his mom, wanting to know what had happened. Dr. Sloan(?) was telling her something, in a voice too low for him to make out clearly. There was that phrase again: 'severed artery.' Whose artery was severed, and how? Shot? Gunshot wound. They were still talking about someone who had been shot. Who was the poor stiff? Did he kn . . . oh.  
  
Another, louder moan issued forth as the pain returned tenfold, along with his scattered memory. Gary's eyelids fluttered as he tried to force them open. A cool, dry hand caressed his brow as he turned his head away from the bright light streaming in through the slats of the open blinds.   
  
"Gary? Sweetie?" his mother crooned. "Time to wake up, honey. Gary, this is your mother talking. Don't make me ask twice." She sounded as if she were talking in an echo chamber.  
  
"M'm?"  
  
"Right here, baby," she told him. "How do you feel?"  
  
"H'rts."  
  
"Oh, I know it does, sweetie," Lois Hobson groaned in sympathy. "Can we get you something for the pain?"  
  
"P-please?" he murmured. "F-feel . . . sick."  
  
"We'll get you something for the nausea, too," Dr. Sloan assured him. "Can you move your fingers for me? Just wiggle them a little bit."  
  
Obediently, Gary sent the message down his arm and prayed that it would reach the fingers he couldn't feel. Apparently it did, because Dr. Sloan smiled and patted him gently on his good shoulder. A moment later, a nurse appeared in response to some unseen signal with a syringe in her hand. She quickly swabbed the IV port and inserted the needle. A few minutes later, the pain ebbed as a feeling of warm lassitude washed over Gary. He reached out to his mother with his good hand, suddenly afraid of the impending darkness.  
  
Lois clutched his hand to her chest as a wide-eyed look of utter panic crossed his pale, almost bloodless features. Breathing rapidly, his eyes locked on hers as he fought against the steady pull of the painkiller.  
  
"It's okay, Gary," she crooned soothingly to her only child. She wiped the sweat from his brow with a cool, damp cloth. "Your father and I will be right here when you wake up. Just get some rest now, and we can talk about this later."  
  
Like the obedient son that he was, Gary let his eyes close as the darkness pulled him under.  
  
****************  
  
Lois fought back tears as she lowered herself into the chair next to his bed. This had an all too familiar feel to it. Another vigil over her sleeping son. Was it any wonder that she still treated him like a child . . . occasionally? Over the past year she had spent so many hours in just this sort of activity, or lack of it. This waiting. Waiting to see when, or if, her only offspring would open his eyes. Waiting to see if he would still recognize her, or if he had been injured so badly that his mind had been damaged, too. So far, they had been incredibly lucky.  
  
She looked up as a hand fell onto her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Clear, baby blue eyes looked back from beneath a thick shock of white hair.  
  
"He's going to be all right," Dr. Sloan assured her. "He knew who you were, and he could move his fingers. Two very good signs. He's young, he's strong and he's tough as nails."  
  
"Are we talking about the same man, here?" Lois snorted. "The man who stopped traffic to let a family of ducks cross the street safely? The man who pulls poodles from storm drains and gets trapped in an abandoned theater because of a lost monkey? Gary 'Mr. Heart of Stone' Hobson?"  
  
"One and the same," Mark Sloan chuckled. "Did he really do all that?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Lois sighed. "All that, and a lot more. My son has a big heart, Dr. Sloan. He bleeds for the underdog in almost every situation. Sometimes literally."  
  
****************  
  
The sky beyond the blinds was still light, but it no longer shone directly across his face. Gary moaned softly, blinking a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus. Getting his mind to function would also be considered a plus. 'Why's it so hard to think,' he wondered. After a moment's concentration, he remembered that he was back in the hospital. Something . . . something about an artery. Severed artery. 'That's not good.' He looked down at his left arm and the tubing that was firmly attached to it. Red. The IV tubing was red. Why was that? With considerable effort, his eyes followed the tube from his arm, to the IV pump and on up to a bag of thick, viscous red fluid. Blood. He was being given blood.   
  
Closing his eyes again, Gary swallowed convulsively as he tried to block out the memories that came rushing back to the forefront of his mind. The theater. He had been rehearsing. The gun! Oh, God! The gun!  
  
Eyes snapping open, Gary vented an inarticulate croak as he struggled to sit up. Strong hands gently, but firmly, held him down.  
  
"Easy, Gar," Bernie Hobson told his weakly struggling son. "Everything's fine. Do you know where you are?"  
  
"Hos . . . hospital," Gary croaked, eyes darting about nervously. He spotted his mother asleep in a chair on the other side of the room. "H-how . . . long?"  
  
"They brought you in last night," his dad replied in a low, soft voice. "You lost a lot of blood, kiddo. Scared the hell out of everyone. Again."  
  
"S-sorry," the younger man murmured. His eyes drifted shut, only to snap back open as the scene insisted on replaying itself behind his eyelids. "C-Crystal! She . . . Where is she? Is . . . Is she okay?"  
  
Bernie sat back in his seat with a sigh. "She's pretty shook up," he sighed. "They had to keep her overnight. Doc Sloan thinks she's gonna be okay, though. That Rousseau woman, too. She's got a major case of the guilts because she insisted on another 'run through.' Doc thinks they might be able to go home today, though."  
  
"You, however," his mother added with a loud yawn, "will be here for several days. At least!" She arched her back in a very 'cat-like' stretch before getting up to join her husband. "How do you feel, hon?"  
  
"Hurts," he mumbled softly. "Don' un'er . . . understand. The headline w-wasn't there . . . before. Why'd it ch-change? What . . . What'd I do?" His question held a heartbreaking note of hurt and betrayal.   
  
"Gary!" Lois protested. "You can't possibly think this is your fault!"  
  
"Then whose?" he asked plaintively. "I ch-checked it . . . checked it before . . . before I left h-home. Twice. It w-wasn't . . . wasn't there. And it n-never ch-changes 'less I . . . do s-something to m-make it . . ."  
  
"Has the Paper ever been wrong before?" Bernie asked. "Told you to be somewhere for something that didn't happen?"   
  
"Oh! Remember when it got the time of death wrong on that reporter!" Lois added. "The one that . . . Gary? What's . . . oh, dear."  
  
Gary had lost what little color he had left as her words stirred up hellish memories. Once more he recalled the condescending sneer as Frank Scanlon more or less threatened to drag out every skeleton he thought Gary might be hiding. That image was replaced almost immediately by the grim scene at the Cicero train yard when he had arrived just in time to hear the fatal shot. That had been his first meeting with Detective Aristotle Savalas. Gary's eyes squeezed shut as he tried, in vain, to expunge the picture from his mind. All he succeeded in doing was to open the floodgates for the same images that had haunted his nightmares for months afterwards. Dark visions of flight, death . . . and despair.  
  
'God!' he silently prayed, 'when does it end?'  
  
Lois gripped his hand tightly, brushing the hair from his brow with her free hand. He returned her grip with a fervor that frightened her. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she murmured gently. "I'm so sorry. I just meant to say that the Paper can only tell what the person writing the article knows. Maybe someone you saved yesterday was a reporter for the Sun-Times. Or at least connected with one somehow."  
  
It was all too much for Gary. His muddled mind just couldn't wrap itself around such a crazy puzzle at that time. It was all he could do to focus on what they were saying. On the one hand, it could very well be that he needed to be where he was for a reason. The Paper often played that game with him. On the other . . . The Sun-Times had a lot of reporters. If one had not been able to cover the story, another would have. But considering the lateness of the hour, would another reporter have gotten the article in before the Paper was 'put to bed?' What was the truth here? Was he needed or just incredibly lucky?  
  
Lois could see that Gary was not up to solving his dilemma. He was barely able to keep his eyes open. The younger Hobson was still pale and weak from both the shock to his system and the massive blood loss. Thinking was something he would have to save for another time.  
  
"Let's worry about all that later," she suggested. "Don't push yourself just yet." She picked up a cup from his tray table, scooping out a spoonful of ice chips. She didn't even have to ask him to open his mouth. 'He must be parched,' she thought as the frozen crystals slid past barely parted lips.  
  
"Thanks," he murmured. He grimaced slightly as the moisture trickled down his throat. "You'd think they could mix a li'l . . . li'l kool-aid in that, or somethin'," he groused irritably. "An'thing to give it some . . . some taste."  
  
"Ah-ah!" Lois admonished her son. "You know what that anesthesia does to your stomach. Let's not take any chances on reopening that wound."  
  
"How's a li'l flavor gonna hurt anything?" Gary asked miserably.   
  
"The sugar content," his mother replied knowingly. "Sometimes it just takes a little bit to trigger a sort of . . . chain reaction." She fed him another spoonful before setting the cup down. "That's enough for now. Are you in a lot of pain?"  
  
"Some," he admitted reluctantly. "Not so bad if I don't . . . don't move . . . too much. Wh-when c'n I see Crystal? G-gotta tell 'er . . . wasn't her fault. Or Bonnie's."  
  
"Tomorrow, maybe," Bernie told his son. "One of us can go talk to 'em, if you think it'll help."  
  
"Please?" Gary murmured. His eyes were already growing heavy as his meager strength began to fade. "J-just tell 'em I'm okay . . . an' I know they didn't . . .didn't mean t'hurt me." He blinked a few times, fighting the weakness of his own body, before finally drifting off to sleep.  
  
With a weary sigh, Bernie headed for the door. "I'll go see if I can find the girls," he told his wife. "You'll send for me when he wakes up again?"  
  
"Of course, dear," Lois sighed. "This is getting to be a habit, you know that? I'm beginning to have doubts that he's going to outlive me." She turned her tearstained face back to the figure on the bed. "Go on. Crystal's in 327. Last time I checked she was still sedated, but Ms. Rousseau was awake. That was an hour and a half ago."  
  
"Gotcha," Bernie nodded. "I'll be back in a few minutes."  
  
***************  
  
He found Crystal's room with no trouble. The young actress was sitting up in bed, staring straight ahead at nothing, a look of abject misery on her lovely young features. Bonnie and Darlene sat on either side of her, trying to coax her into eating a few bites.  
  
"How's she doing?" Bernie asked as he quietly slipped into the room. "Can she hear us?"  
  
"I can hear just fine," the young woman murmured miserably. She still wouldn't meet his eyes. "Is . . . is Gary . . .?"  
  
"Gary's gonna be fine," he assured her. "He sent me to see how you were doing, sweetheart. He also wanted me to tell you that this wasn't your fault. Either of you," he added, looking straight at Bonnie Rousseau.   
  
Crystal turned her head to meet his gaze, hope warring with despair on her youthful visage. "I-is that true? That he's okay?" she asked, her eyes gleaming suspiciously. At Bernie's solemn nod, the young woman buried her face in both hands and burst into tears. Darlene quickly gathered the younger woman into her arms, as Bonnie hugged herself and mumbled, over and over again, something that sounded like: 'Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you!'  
  
"Um, when you feel up to it," Bernie murmured uncomfortably, "we'll get you in to see him. He's still a little weak 'n' tends to nod off in the middle of a conversation, but he really is okay. Chris, honey? Did you understand what I said? This wasn't your fault. You didn't put the live rounds in the clip. Neither did you, ma'am. Don't let Gary see you like this. It'll tear 'im apart."  
  
"I-I won't, Mr. Hobson," Crystal sniffed, drying her eyes on her sheet. "I-I'm fine. Really. Could you t-tell him we'll be up to see him soon? Tonight, maybe?"  
  
"Sure thing, kiddo," Bernie grinned. "He'll be thrilled to see a friendly face."  
  
"Any word from Marion or Steve?" Darlene asked as she settled back in her chair. "Do they know how live ammunition did end up in that clip?"  
  
"Nothing yet," he sighed. "Lieutenant Armstrong called earlier to see how Gary was doing, but he didn't have any news for us. They'll be wantin' to talk to the kid as soon as he's able. I just don't think Gar can tell 'em anything. I mean, the kid hasn't got an enemy in the world!"  
  
**************  
  
"There's, um, Baylor," Gary murmured drowsily. "The . . . the guy who killed . . . Judge Romick, And wha's his name, Corbel. Vincent Corbel, th-the renegade DA who was leak . . . leakin' information to . . . to someone. Counterfeiters, Mulford a-and Smolski? Can't remember. Savalas? No. No. H-he's, um . . . D-did you ever find out who . . . who Ma . . . Mar . . ." 'God!' he thought fuzzily. 'I can't even say his name!' Helplessly, he looked up to meet Crumbs understanding gaze. "Do . . . do you know who he worked for?"  
  
"If they ever found out," Crumb replied, realizing immediately whom Gary was referring to, "they never saw fit to tell me. I doubt those guys would stoop to revenge, though. No profit in it."  
  
Armstrong shot the retired veteran a puzzled look before resuming his interview. That these two shared a history, he was already well aware of. Apparently, not all of it was part of the public record. Or the local police record, for that matter. "That's a start anyway," he said. "Can you think of anyone else who might be holding a grudge?"  
  
"Um, Scanlon," was Gary's surprising answer.  
  
"The reporter?" Armstrong asked, confused. "But he's . . ."  
  
"N-no," Gary quickly tried to correct the big detective. "B-business man. Um, the . . . Ricky Brown. He, um, he helped me catch the guy . . . the guy who-who framed Ricky Brown. F-for Thomas F-Fletcher's murder. God! What . . . what was his name? Um, Winston something. Or something Winston." He scrubbed at his face with his good hand, trying to rub away the desire to sleep. "Um, last year, th-the people who grabbed Dr. Jackson 'n' me. I-I, um, I don't . . . don't think all of them, um, w-were caught. I'm sorry. Tha's all I can think of right now. S'tired."  
  
Armstrong flipped his notebook closed, sticking it into the inside pocket of his suit. "That's enough for now, I suppose," he said. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Sleepy," Gary murmured as his eyes drifted shut. "Can't seemed t' stay 'wake ver' long." He blinked his eyes open with an obvious effort. "Meredith," he mumbled, almost under his breath. "M-Meredith Carson. She was . . . was investigating, um, someone. Th-they . . . they tried t-to kill us. Sh-she works for, um, W-Washington Post now. I think. Harry Hawkes would . . . n-no, he's gone, too." This last was said in a near whisper as Gary drifted back into unconsciousness.  
  
Lois pulled the covers up to her son's chin, careful not to disturb his IV. "I had no idea he had so many enemies," she murmured fearfully. "He's never deliberately done anything to hurt anyone! How could so many people want him dead?"  
  
"We don't know that all, or any, of them do," Armstrong told her honestly. "Oscar said that he'd taken all four clips out earlier that morning to load them. An old buddy of his had come by about that time, and the props were left unattended for about thirty minutes. He's pretty sure that his friend was alone, but after hearing about the side door being open whenever Gary arrived for rehearsal . . . I have to wonder."  
  
************  
  
Gary stirred fitfully, wincing when the movement sent a lance of pain through his injured shoulder. Behind closed lids his eyes darted from side to side, following images that only he could see. Soft moans issued from dry lips as he did battle with old, familiar demons.  
  
"His doctor has ordered a stronger antibiotic," Dr. Sloan assured Lois Hobson. "Considering Gary's already weakened condition," he added, "post-op infections were a strong possibility. How are you holding up?"  
  
"I'm fine," Lois sighed. She dipped the washcloth into the basin of cool water, wringing it almost dry before using it to wipe the beads of sweat from her son's fevered brow. "I should be used to this by now," she added in a tight, strained voice. "I mean, out of the last eleven months, he's spent less than three on the outside. For the last five years he's risked life and limb to help people. Even when he could barely move to do it. He's put his personal life on hold for the sake of people who scream and yell at him, beat him to a pulp and make his life miserable. Now, someone tried to deliberately kill him. Why shouldn't I be fine? I'm . . . just . . . ducky!" she sniffed, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks.  
  
Mark Sloan gently pried the cloth from her hand, putting it into the basin as he pulled the sobbing woman's face against his shoulder. "It's okay," he told her. "I've had to keep this same vigil a time or two. It's never easy."  
  
"But your son's a cop," she sniffed, clinging to him for support. "You expect things like this."  
  
"Expect, yes," Mark sighed. "Get used to, never. Each time, it's like something is trying to tear the heart out of you. You start thinking . . . terrible things. Like revenge. You'd like nothing more than to find the person responsible and hurt them just as bad." He looked around, puzzled, as he noticed someone missing. "Where's your husband? I would've thought he'd be here with you."  
  
"Oh," Lois sniffed, pulling out of his embrace. "H-he had to go take care of a-a few things. For Gary."  
  
"For Gary," he repeated, understanding at once. "Can he do that? Pass on this . . . gift . . . to someone else?"  
  
"It's no gift," she sighed, once more taking up the damp cloth. "But, yes, in a way. His father and I sort of . . . pinch-hit when he's . . . W-we've had a lot of practice this past year. Gary's the best at it, though. Not because he's younger. And certainly not because he's more able-bodied. It's because . . . because he feels for other people so deeply. It's like . . . like he feels their pain as if it were his own."  
  
Mark Sloan looked at the restlessly stirring man with a new understanding. "That's not a quality you can teach your children," he murmured softly. "Either they have it or they don't. All we can do is nurture it. And you've done a wonderful job with him."  
  
***********  
  
The sliver of sky he could see beyond the window had grown dark the next time Gary opened his eyes. He stared at it, puzzled. Was it the same day, or had he slept around the clock? Feeling more than a little disoriented, Gary carefully turned his head to look around the quiet room. The eerie silence was broken only by the beeping of the monitor above his head. Was he alone, or did he hear soft breathing noises in the corner behind him? Cautiously shifting his position to see better, he couldn't quite suppress a soft cry as pain seared his wounded shoulder.  
  
"Gary?" A dim shadow separated itself from the darkness of the corner. "It's me," the soft voice whispered. "Crystal."  
  
"C-Crystal?" he stammered in a weak, almost inaudible whisper. "Y-you okay?"  
  
The young woman chuckled in the darkness, her soft laughter living up to her name. "Your parents said that would be the first thing out of your mouth," she replied. "I'm fine, Gary. What about you? How are you feeling?"  
  
"M'okay," he murmured. "Li'l . . . weak, b-but okay. Wh-what day is it?"  
  
"You've been running a fever for the last three days," she whispered. Her silhouetted form glanced over to where another shape occupied the other corner. "Bonnie's still sleeping, I think. Oh, Gary! I'm so sorry! When I saw th-the blood and you . . . I'm so sorry! I never would've pointed that thing anywhere near you if I'd known . . ."  
  
"You didn't know," Gary told her. "It's not your fault. Or Bonnie's. Don't . . . don't go blaming yourself . . . f-for something you didn't do." He closed his eyes briefly as a he fought a wave of dizziness. "I'm gonna be f-fine," he assured her. "Not . . . not the f-first time, ya know. Ol' p-pro . . . at this." His eyes were already beginning to grow heavy. "Sorry," he murmured drowsily. "Guess 'm a li'l more tired 'n I thought."  
  
"That's okay, boss man," Crystal sniffled. Was she crying? "We'll be here when you wake up. Go back to sleep."  
  
Concerned by the tearful tone of her voice, Gary fought against the pull of a deeper darkness. "You . . . you sure you're okay?" he asked.  
  
"I'm fine, Gary," she promised him. "Now. Just shut your eyes and get some rest. You'll probably have a ton of visitors tomorrow."  
  
"C'n hardly wait," Gary murmured softly. A moment later, his rhythmic breathing told Crystal that he had finally given in to sleep.  
  
"Crystal?" Bonnie Rousseau murmured sleepily. "Is he alright?"  
  
The young actress softly stroked her friend's cheek as she dabbed at her face with a tissue. "He's fine," she whispered huskily. "He's just fine."  
  
*****************  
  
There was a warm . . . tingly feeling in his wounded shoulder. A faint hum that bordered on the edge of audibility sounded somewhere above him. Slowly, Gary turned his head toward where he thought the noise was coming from. Blinking to bring sleep glazed eyes into focus, he was surprised to see a familiar face framed by short blonde hair. Eyes closed, she was holding a glowing disc in the palm of her hand. The soft yellowish/orange light seemed to penetrate straight to the deepest core of his pain. Still only half conscious, it took a moment for Gary to realize what the device was and what she was doing. He quickly brought his left hand up, jostling her arm and breaking her concentration.  
  
"Are you crazy?" he hissed. "You . . . you shouldn't be . . . be doing this!"  
  
"It's alright, son," a deep voice replied. Gary turned his head a little further to see another familiar face. "Dr. Fraiser went over your chart before we did anything."  
  
"G-General?" Gary stammered. He almost didn't recognize the Air Force officer in civilian clothes. Looking from the balding man to the blonde major, Gary tried to make sense of their presence in his hospital room. "Wh-what . . .?"  
  
"You had a small pocket of infection that was resisting the medication," Samantha Carter told him in a near whisper. "I was clearing it up before it could erode the nerve. How are you feeling?"  
  
"B-better," he assured her. Truthfully, he did feel better. The fever that had been burning inside him for the last few days was completely gone, and he no longer had the lingering queasiness that had been plaguing him each time he awoke. He spared a glance at the bandages that enveloped most of his chest. His right arm was buried under there, somewhere. "I w-would've thought you guys had m-more . . . important things t-to worry about."  
  
General George Hammond pulled a chair up closer to the bed and sat down before answering the implied question. Major Carter retreated to a corner of the room to lock the device away in her briefcase.  
  
"Don't underestimate your own importance, Mr. Hobson," the general told him. "Just a little over a year ago you and Dr. Jackson were abducted on the orders of a rather . . . unusual faction. It's true you only came to their attention when you kept saving my people, but the fact remains that you could still be in considerable danger from these villains. In the course of that little . . . adventure you were let . . . no, thrown into a project that is . . . not ready for public scrutiny. That alone could have put you in considerable danger."  
  
"Already, umph, figured that out," Gary muttered, carefully levering himself to a more comfortable position. He fumbled for the bed controls for a moment, then raised the head of the bed so that he was able to see the rest of the room. Dr. Janet Fraiser was holding a whispered conference with Major Carter, consulting the medical chart in her hands as she spoke. "I, sorta, mentioned th-the incident to . . . to Detective Armstrong. Just reminded him of th-the actual kidnapping. Along with a-about half a dozen other i-incidents." He couldn't suppress a chuckle at the officer's reaction. "Y-you think I c'n do . . . wh-what I do . . . without stepping on a f-few toes? I was getting b-beat up . . . long time before I met you guys."  
  
"I see," the senior officer nodded. "So you think your shooting is more likely to be associated with one of these other incidents?"  
  
"Yes," Gary murmured, nodding. "Don't know for sure, but I'd feel a lot . . . a lot better if that were the case. I'm having e-enough nightmares as it is."  
  
"Given your history," Dr. Fraiser commented, giving him an impish grin, "I'm not surprised." She pulled out a penlight, flashing it first in one eye, then the other. "How many times does this make? Seven? Eight?"  
  
"Doesn't count," he replied, returning her smile. "Heart didn't even stutter this time. Or so they tell me."  
  
"Daniel will be happy to hear that," Samantha chuckled. "He's confined to base until we know, for certain, that the two incidents aren't related. We still haven't located the men hired by your 'friend,' Kane. Or Mr. Kane, himself. It's like the man has dropped off the face of the Earth."  
  
Recalling the last conversation he'd had with Cade Foster, Gary could only nod and smile. She was a lot closer to the truth than he could safely say outside the Cheyenne Mountain Complex.   
  
"I don't think we have to worry about him anymore," Gary murmured. He was beginning to feel tired, but not with the all-pervading weakness that had marked his previous awakenings. "I have it on good au-authority . . . th-that he's not . . . not a problem anymore. What about . . . Golden Boy? Is he . . . is he still carryin' a grudge?"  
  
"Is he ever!" Hammond snorted. "That is one of the most single-minded . . . individuals I've ever encountered in my life. Seriously, Mr. Hobson, I've discussed this in as much detail as I dared with Detective Armstrong. He's agreed to allow us to provide you with a couple of armed guards until we can determine one hundred percent that this was an accident."  
  
Gary tensed up at the mention of guards. As long as he was confined to the hospital, it was no big deal. Later, though, when he needed to move freely . . . that was another matter entirely.  
  
"I-is that really necessary?" he asked. "I mean . . . I a-appreciate the offer and all, but . . ."  
  
"It's not negotiable," the general told him in a tone that brooked no arguments. "Through no fault of your own, you've become privy to highly classified information, Mr. Hobson. Granted, you've never so much as mentioned it to another living soul and you were very circumspect when you prevented that incident over the Holidays last year. Still, someone could have targeted you to draw us out. Make us aware of just how vulnerable they perceive us to be."  
  
"I just don't think that's the case," Gary sighed. "They'll probably find that some live ammo got mixed in with the blanks by accident. Or-or that Oscar was given the wrong box at the gun shop. You'll see. No one was out to deliberately hurt me, let alone kill me."  
  
************** 


	3. Guarding The Guardian

"There's no doubt about it," Armstrong sighed as he dropped the forensics report in Steve's lap. "The remaining four bullets were custom loads. Heavier grain than normal, which is why it knocked him so far off his feet. And rigged to look like blanks. The 'cardboard' plug at the end was just thin paper over a specially made slug with a flat tip. From what the range master said, he's lucky to still have a shoulder. We found Oscar's prints on the clip, but the bullets had been wiped clean."  
  
"That seems to rule out the accident theory, alright," Lt Sloan sighed. "Poor guy. He has enemies he doesn't even know about, probably. We had a guy with us on an exchange program from China. Sammo Law. He said a Gary Hobson had been instrumental in breaking up a smuggling ring. I didn't connect the name, at first. Then, when I spoke with him a couple of weeks ago, I asked him for more details. Did you know there's only one Gary Hobson in all of Chicago?"  
  
"Thank God," Armstrong sighed. "One's all I can handle."  
  
*************  
  
"I'd forgotten all about those guys," Gary mused, absently rubbing at his throat. Thinking back, he could almost feel the bruises which one thug had left on his neck. The marks that little Henry Pagett had called 'hickeys.' "Aren't they still in prison?"  
  
"Two of them got out on early parole last month," Armstrong told him. "One reported to his PO right away, the other disappeared. We have an APB out on him, now, for parole violation. Given this man's record, he's strong on our list of suspects."  
  
Gary laid his head back with a sigh. "I just can't believe there's so many people out there holding that kind of a grudge," he murmured. "I mean, yeah, I've stepped on a few toes in my life, but . . . I-I didn't think I'd ever interfered with anything worth killing over. At the time . . . yeah, but later? When there's nothing to be gained from my death? It just doesn't make sense."  
  
"For some people," General Hammond remarked, "revenge is a powerful motivation. It can become an obsession."  
  
Gary turned his head to stare out the window as he considered their arguments. They had teamed up to convince him to submit to at least one armed guard. The young barkeep had been adamant that he did not need protection. Now, he was not quite so sure. What if this mysterious assailant went after his family, or his friends, to get at him? Could he really afford to take that chance?  
  
"All right," he sighed. "You win. B-but only one. I don't wanna be leading a-a marching band everywhere I go. And I don't wanna be locked away in a 'safe house.' That leaves everyone else I care about . . . out in the cold. I-I can't do that. If this . . . person wants me so bad, then . . . then the only way to draw him, or her, out is to . . . to dangle me out there like bait." He closed his eyes as the implications of his statement hit home. "I can't believe I just said that."  
  
"I can," Armstrong grinned, tapping his notebook with a pen. "You have this bad habit of sticking your neck out. Not to mention being in the oddest places when things just . . . happen. Like that Schlepprock character. Except that all the bad things seem to be happening to you, lately. "  
  
"What, um, yeah," Gary murmured. "I-I'm no hero, Paul. I'm just . . . just the guy who's there when things go wrong."  
  
"That so?" the black detective snorted. "Seems to me, a hero is usually just someone who cares too much to stand around doing nothing when things go wrong. Sound familiar?."  
  
Reddening under what, from Armstrong, was high praise, Gary ducked his head with a shrug. A sharp twinge of pain was a belated reminder not to do that. It had now been a little over a week since the shooting and this was his first full day of consciousness. So far it had been monopolized by the police and military as represented by his current visitors. When would they let his family in, he wondered?  
  
Looking over to see Dr. Fraiser, Dr. Sloan, and a Dr. Creek whispering by the door, he also wondered what it was they found so interesting. They were leafing through a thick folder, pausing only to discuss some point they seemed to find fascinating.  
  
"H-how . . . how soon can I go home?" Gary asked, just loud enough for them to hear. All three figures turned in response to his stammered question.  
  
"A few more days," Dr. Creek told him as she approached the bed. "You lost a lot of blood, then had to fight off a severe post-op infection. That left you pretty weak, Mr. Hobson. That shoulder is going to need some therapy also. We have to ascertain the degree of nerve damage, if any. From what Dr. Sloan tells me, you are one incredibly lucky individual. If your bad leg hadn't buckled when it did, that bullet could've gone straight through your heart. As it was, you still came a little too close for comfort."  
  
When she mentioned his leg buckling, Gary had given Dr. Sloan a puzzled look. 'Was that what it looked like to everyone else?' he wondered. He hoped so. That would save him having to come up with another explanation.  
  
"What's the matter, Hobson?" Armstrong asked, having caught his look. "Isn't that how you remember it?"  
  
"N-not . . . I-I don't . . . T-to tell the truth," he admitted, "I don't remember much. My leg was sore, and I was starting to feel . . . really tired. Th-then I flubbed my line, I-I started to . . . t-to say . . . something." He rubbed his good hand over his face, as if trying to recall that night. "That . . . that's all I can remember," he added truthfully. "Everything after that's kind . . . kind of a blur." Which, for once, was the truth. After he'd been hit, things had pretty much stopped making sense. "S-so, um, could you, sorta, give me an idea of how much time we're talking about? B-before I'm able to go home, I mean."  
  
"This weekend sometime?" Mark suggested to Dr. Creek.   
  
"I would think so," the tall redhead replied, leafing through Gary's chart. "His white count and vital signs are back to normal. So are his hemoglobin and hematacrit. All his other labs look good, and he's showing minimal nerve damage, so far. I see no reason why he shouldn't be able to go home by . . . Saturday. Maybe."  
  
"Saturday?" Gary moaned. "It's only Tuesday! That's four more days!"  
  
Dr. Sloan shook his head with a grim chuckle. "Just four days ago, you were still fighting for your life," he reminded his young friend. "Don't be in such a hurry to finish the job."  
  
"Mark's right," Dr. Creek nodded. "Over the past several months, your body has been severely traumatized, repeatedly. It's barely had time to recover from one shock before it was hit with another, then another. From what I can gather from your history, you have got to be one of two things. Either you are the luckiest man that ever lived, or the most resilient."  
  
Looking down at the mass of gauze encompassing his chest, Gary made a rueful face. "I'd vote for that last thing you said," he grumbled. "I sure don't feel very lucky."  
  
************  
  
"Gary? Gary Hobson?"  
  
Gary stopped massaging the yellow tennis ball long enough to glance toward the open door. The man who stood there, a surprised look on his face, seemed familiar for some reason. Then it hit him. Two boys standing in the parking lot next to a brand new Lexus. A man too angry to see straight.   
  
"M-Mason, isn't it?" he asked hesitantly. "Eric Mason?"  
  
"Yes," the man replied, stepping the rest of the way into the room. A girl of about thirteen, with short brown hair framing an elfin face, walked in at his side. "What happened? The last I saw, you seemed in pretty good shape."  
  
"Someone slipped some live ammo into a prop," Gary replied with a shrug, which he instantly regretted. He grimaced as pain seared through his injured shoulder. "I've, umph, gotta stop doin' that," he sighed. He looked directly at the girl. "Your daughter? The one you were talking about?"  
  
"Oh! Yes, this is Kelley," he responded distractedly. Turning to the girl, his hands flickered in a rapid series of gestures in ASL. 'Kelley,' he signed, 'this is the man I told you about. Mr. Hobson.'  
  
Smiling hesitantly, the girl gestured rapidly in response. 'Nice to meet you, Mr. Hobson.'  
  
'Nice to meet you, too, Kelley,' Gary signed awkwardly in return. His ability to sign was hampered by his injury. 'You look sad,' he commented. 'Why?'  
  
Glancing briefly at her father, she just shrugged and looked away.  
  
"We're just here for a few tests," Mason told him with a shrug, as if it was something they did everyday. "She'd rather be playing softball. So you were the one in the paper? I read about that, but never connected the name."  
  
Gary noticed that Mason didn't sign unless he was speaking directly to his daughter. That didn't seem fair, so Gary tried to keep up a running commentary. With only partial use of his right hand and arm, it wasn't easy. Then Kelley flickered a smiled at him, signing that she could read his lips. Gary returned her smile before turning back to her father.  
  
"What kind of tests is she having?" he asked, careful to keep his face turned so that she could see his lips.   
  
"There's a new procedure they think might restore her hearing," Mason said, giving the young girl a hopeful smile. "Partially, at least. She'd have to wear a hearing aid, but that's got to be better than total silence."  
  
"Depends on what you're used to," Gary commented. He knew that, given a chance, Marissa would love to see again. From what Mason had told him that morning when they'd first met, Kelley had been deaf almost since birth. How would she react to the sudden influx of a sense she had never really known?   
  
"That's easy enough for you to say," Mason grumbled. "You never had to deal with such a serious handicap."  
  
"You'd be surprised what I've had to deal with," Gary murmured, ducking his head slightly. He saw no need, as yet, to drag up the events of the past year. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kelley's lips twitch. She had caught his mumbled response. "Have you talked this over with Kelley?" he asked. "Asked her what she wants?"  
  
"Are you serious?" Mason snorted. "She's a child! She depends on us to know what's best for her." He glanced down at his watch, turning to face the girl. 'We have to go, Kelley,' he signed. 'We don't want to be late.'  
  
The girl ducked her head and nodded, her expression unreadable. Still, Gary could have sworn that, just before she turned for the door, she mouthed something at him. As they waved farewell, he leaned back with a weary sigh. Had she really said, 'Wanna bet?'  
  
*************  
  
Later that same evening, Marissa came by for a visit. His parents had dropped her off on their way to do 'a few errands,' promising to pick her up on the return trip.  
  
"This is getting to be a bad habit," she told her friend. "You have really got to kick this hospital fetish, Gary. You're insurance agent is threatening suicide."  
  
"Don't think I haven't tried," he responded with a lopsided grin. "So, how're you and Emmett getting along? Has he popped the question yet?"  
  
"Not yet," Marissa chuckled. "I think he's thinking about it, though. He's suddenly developed a nervous stutter. A lot like yours."  
  
Gary made a face he knew his friend couldn't see, but he was sure she could sense. She was uncanny that way. "Don't keep him dangling too long, if he does," he cautioned her. "He's a good man, and he worships the ground you walk on. He's also one of the few people who doesn't treat you like an object to be pitied." He felt safe in speaking so bluntly to his friend. She had never had much tolerance for people who tip-toed around the subject of her blindness.   
  
"Don't worry," Marissa told him. "I'll have to at least let him finish the question, though. I don't want to seem too eager. Seriously, Gary, do you think I'd be doing the right thing to accept?"  
  
"Do you love him?" Gary asked simply.  
  
"Yes," she replied without a trace of hesitation.  
  
"Then you've just answered your own question," he told her. "No one can tell you what to do in a situation like this, Marissa. L-least of all me. My track record in that area kinda . . . s-speaks for itself," Gary added ruefully. He shifted his arm more comfortably into the sling they had fitted him with that morning. It was definitely a step up from having it strapped to his chest, but the darned thing was still a nuisance. "All I can tell you is, you won't know if it's right until it goes wrong. If you sit around waiting for a guarantee, you end up . . . well, l-like me," he added dismally.   
  
"Oh, Gary, I'm . . ."  
  
"Don't say you're sorry," he cautioned her. "If I learned anything from Erica, it's that it wouldn't be fair to go into a relationship knowing that I can't commit myself completely to keeping up my end of it. A wife deserves a fulltime husband. Kids need a fulltime dad. Anything less . . . I don't think I can . . . I-it just wouldn't be right."  
  
Marissa leaned in a little closer to the bed, disturbed by the despondent tone of his voice. "So you just give up on 'The Dream?'" she asked. "A wife, home, kids, the whole deal? You simply decide it's not worth it anymore?"  
  
"No!" Gary protested. "You don't . . . It's still a great dream. I just . . . I'm giving it to you and Emmett. You two'll make great parents someday. Like Chuck and Jade. Who'd 've ever thought Chuck would turn out to be such a doting father, but look at him! He worships his family! Like he used to worship money. He's got 'The Dream.' Why shouldn't you?"  
  
"Or you," Marissa insisted. "Don't give up just because you been burned a few times."  
  
"Burned!" Gary laughed bitterly at that, his left hand pressing against his injured shoulder as pain shot through it. "Marissa, I've been incinerated! Marcia kicked me out weeks before the Paper ever showed up. Emma was in love with the man I reminded her of. Renee likes me well enough, but there's obviously nothing more to it than that. Erica wanted what I couldn't give. Total commitment. Truthfully, I think I was more into being a dad for Henry than being there for her. Brigatti? I never know from one day to the next what she wants. She'll rip into me, calling me a worthless pest and a nuisance. Then she'll be all smiles and apologies just before she tears into me again. I can't live that way."  
  
"So you're going to tell her to get lost?" Marissa sighed.  
  
Gary shook his head slowly. "I don't think so," he replied, his good hand now plucking idly at his sling. "I think that, maybe, we can at least be friends. I-I just don't see much . . . happening beyond that. N-not that I wouldn't like something to . . . but i-it takes two. You know?"  
  
Marissa leaned back with a sigh. "I guess I see your point," she replied sadly. "I just hate to see you condemning yourself to a life of loneliness. You deserve happiness just as much as the next person, Gary. More than some. Yet you see yourself as being on the outside looking in."  
  
"Not if you let your kids call me 'uncle,'" he corrected her. "Th-that would kinda . . . kinda make me a member of the family. Wouldn't it?"  
  
Gary's voice sounded so hesitant . . . and hopeful. Impulsively, Marissa stood up and stepped closer to the bed, then pulled him into a warm embrace. "Of course it will," she told him tearfully. "You'll always be welcome in my home. Always."  
  
*******************  
  
When Lois and Bernie arrived an hour or so later, they found the two chatting amiably about things of little consequence. They did notice that Gary seemed a little pale and tired, but put it down to his tendency to over do things.  
  
"You look exhausted, sweetie," Lois sighed. "If you keep pushing yourself like this, you're only going to make yourself sick again."   
  
"I'll be good, Mom," he murmured tiredly. "I promise." By now he really was feeling a little sleepy. "Everything go alright? With . . .you know."  
  
"Just dandy," Bernie grinned. "Stopped a coupla traffic fatalities, a domestic dispute that was gonna turn ugly, and kept some kids from skinny dipping in the fountain in Grant Park."  
  
Gary shot his dad a strange look. "Skinny dipping made the Paper?"  
  
"No," his mother chuckled, giving her husband a playful slap on the shoulder. "He's pulling your leg. We did stop them from knocking some poor woman into the fountain and putting her into a coma. So, how are you feeling, dear? You really do look tired."  
  
"Diane put me through the wringer today," he finally admitted. "Wanted to make sure I did the exercises right after they turn me loose tomorrow. Don't," Gary sighed as her face clouded over. "She's just doing her job. She let me know right up front that, if I do some of these wrong, I could do more harm than good. She also threatened to hang me if I don't pace myself better."  
  
"She's not kidding, either," Marissa warned him. "I have it on good authority that she intends to hold you to that promise to give her away at her wedding. The only excuses she'll take is a body cast or a death certificate."  
  
"I think I have one of those," Gary quipped. "It's expired, though."  
  
"Keep it up, buster," Lois growled, "and I'll renew it. That is nothing to joke about. You've scared the hell out of me so many times in the past year, the pastor assures me that I have a reserved seat in heaven."  
  
Gary's face fell as he squirmed uncomfortably. He might joke about it, but the subject of death still made his skin crawl. It also depressed him to be reminded how deeply his family and friends had been affected by his recent trials.  
  
"Sorry, Mom," he mumbled dejectedly, his good mood suddenly washed away by feelings of guilt. "I-I didn't . . . I-it was just a . . ."  
  
Appalled at the sudden change in Gary's demeanor, Lois sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around him. Tears welled up behind her eyes when he put his left arm around her, burying his face against her shoulder. They had been warned that his emotions would be all over the place after such a traumatic experience. As if they had to be reminded. He was still off balance from the triple whammy life had thrown at him in just a little over eight months.   
  
"It's okay, sweetie," she sighed. "I was joking, too. God knows, we all need a good laugh right now." Pulling back, Lois took a good look at her son's crestfallen features. This close she could see the puffiness and dark smudges under his eyes, clear indications that he wasn't sleeping well. "Gary," she murmured. "What's wrong? Are you . . . are you having those nightmares again? The ones with . . ."  
  
Wordlessly, he nodded. Gary clung to her a moment longer, drawing strength and comfort just from having her so close. Finally, he heaved a deep, shuddering sigh and released his hold.   
  
"Savalas is there," he admitted. "Sometimes he brings along a friend or two. Th-then . . . then things get . . . I-it's no big deal," Gary stammered nervously, trying to dismiss her concerns. "Th-they'll pass. They always do."   
  
"I might believe that," Bernie commented dryly, "if you could look one of us in the eye when you say it."  
  
A hesitant smile tugged at the corner of Gary's mouth as he gave his dad a sideways look without raising his head. "I'll be okay, Dad," he insisted. "If it'll ease your minds, I've already talked with Dr. Zimmerman. He, um, he's setting up an appointment w-with that therapist he was telling us about a coupla months ago. Doc thinks he can get me in sometime next week. S-so, I am getting help, guys. Just . . . don't expect miracles. Okay?"  
  
"Gary," Lois sighed, tracing one hand over his injured shoulder, "everything you've done since last May has been one long series of miracles. How can we expect anything less from you now?"  
  
*****************  
  
Early the next morning, Gary was awakened by a gentle massaging motion on his stomach which was accompanied by a soft purr. Puzzled, he opened one eye and looked down toward his feet. There was the cat, purring contentedly and kneading Gary's abdomen with his front paws. The Paper was lying across Gary's knees.  
  
Gary glanced down at his sling, then to the cane that leaned against the chair next to his bed. Then he looked back at the smug feline.  
  
"Y-you're kidding," he said, laughing nervously. "You've gotta be kidding." Since his shooting, the Paper had been showing up at his parent's door. What could possibly need his personal attention so badly? "One good arm, a bum leg," he grumbled, "and I can barely stand on the good one. Talk about expecting miracles!"  
  
Fumbling for the controls, it took him a moment to raise the head of his bed. Gingerly, he stretched down and grasped the periodical. Lying back with a sigh, he glanced at the front page. Nothing earth shattering there. Just another debate about landfills and the ecology. Some politician was going to get caught someplace that he shouldn't be. He used to try to stop those, but had finally given it up as a lost cause in this guy's case. The man would chase anything in skirts. This time he was going to be in for a big surprise. "Serves 'im right," Gary grumbled as he turned the page. "His career is gonna end up in the landfill. Fool shoulda checked for an 'Adam's Apple.'"  
  
Turning the page one-handed, he scanned the headlines. New construction projects on the Eastside leading to some derelict buildings coming down and a four-block area being rezoned. Another TV series, which was supposedly still in the planning stages, was negotiating the use of one of the converted warehouses on Taylor St. Wait! Here it was on page four.   
  
'FATAL FALL CLAIMS LIFE OF DEAF CHILD'  
  
With growing horror, Gary quickly read the article.  
  
"'At approximately 7:45 yesterday morning, thirteen year old Kelley Mason apparently took her own life," he murmured softly, "by leaping from the roof of Cook County Hospital. Kelley had been deaf almost from birth and was reported to have been despondent over being told that she was ineligible for a new, as yet experimental, procedure. It is not known as of this writing how the young girl gained access to the roof. The only witness to her tragic death was Gary Hobson, a patient in one of the rooms below the spot from which Miss Mason chose to end her life.' I-I can't . . . this can't happen." Gary grabbed his watch off the nightstand and checked the time. It was already after seven. Taking into account the time it would take her to work up the courage to take that lethal step, she was probably already on the roof. As to how she had gained access to the roof, Rachel Greenberg had shown him how ridiculously easy that was.  
  
Moving cautiously, Gary nudged the cat aside and then levered himself out of the bed. He looked with chagrin at the IV that was due to be taken out just before his discharge that morning. There was no help for it. He would never get that pole up the stairs. Having watched the nurses do it a few hundred times, Gary knew how to shut off the pump and clamp off the tube to keep from making a mess. This he was able to do with his left hand. He had to use his teeth to peel back the tape and pull out the catheter. Blood poured from the wound until he was able to clamp down on it with his right hand and a washcloth. It was awkward, but he managed to strap his watch around the makeshift bandage using his right hand and his teeth. By the time he was finished his shoulder was throbbing unmercifully and he was bathed in a chill sweat from head to toe. He checked the time again. Almost 7:30! He had to hurry!   
  
Putting a robe on over his pajamas and slippers on his bare feet, Gary grasped his cane and limped to the door. He poked his head out, checking the hallway. His police guard was talking to the nurse who was bringing the breakfast trays. Both had their backs to him, but they might turn at any moment. He needed a distraction! At that moment, the cat came barreling out of his room. With an earsplitting yowl, the orange tabby ran down the hall and past the softly speaking pair. Startled, they took off after the intruding feline, giving Gary the break he needed. Moving as rapidly, and quietly, as he could, Gary made his way to the emergency stairwell. There was a bad moment when the nurse discovered him missing, and Gary had to hide in a utility closet until they took the search down another corridor. The young barkeep seethed at the delay. Time was running out!  
  
Then he was on the stairs and struggling to climb the few floors to the roof. 'I shoulda took the elevator to the top floor,' he told himself. But that would have meant walking past the nurse's station. He never could've talked the nurses into letting him take a stroll on the roof, let alone explained why he took out his own IV. Nope, it was the stairs or nothing.  
  
Panting from exertion, Gary shouldered open the fire door at the head of the stairs. Turning, he tried to remember which side his room was on. The article said that Kelley had hurled past his window, so that would be where he would find her. Once he found her, how could he get her attention without literally scaring her to death? 'Please, God,' he prayed. 'Let her be looking my way!'  
  
Kelley was standing at the edge of the roof, staring over the waist high parapet that ran the full circumference of the building. The young girl looked so lost and alone, Gary could understand how she might feel driven to take her own life. As he struggled to reach her before she jumped, the teen took a step back. Placing both hands on the cold, dusty bricks, she started to push herself upwards. Frantic, Gary glanced around for something, anything, to get her attention! The rooftop was clear of debris. Dropping the cane and reaching down with his left hand, he peeled off one slipper and hurled it with all his might at the rim of the parapet just beside her. His aim was true. The slipper hit the parapet and went sailing over the edge.  
  
Startled, Kelley jumped back a couple of steps, then turned to see where the missile had come from. Gary, white-faced and obviously in pain, was struggling to free his arm from the sling. Instinctively, she took a step toward him, intending to help. Then she remembered why she was there. Her eyes narrowed as she took another step . . . backwards.  
  
'Don't!' Gary signed desperately. 'Don't do this, Kelley! Let me help you, please!'  
  
'How can you help me?' she asked, her hands shaping the words with a speed he could barely keep up with. 'Can you get my dad to back off and leave me alone? Can you make him and Mom just accept me for who I am? I don't think so!'  
  
'I can try,' Gary promised her. 'I'll talk to them. I'll make them see how all this testing is affecting you.' He hesitated, trying to work past the pain 'talking' in ASL was causing him. The strain was already showing on his face. 'I know that you don't want these tests,' he told her. 'I know that you see them as a nuisance and a royal pain. But your parents are only doing what they think is best for you. You have to help me convince them that you don't want them. And this isn't the way.' It was clear that the extra effort it took to put emphasis on a word was agonizing. 'Please. Come back inside and we'll find them right now. I'll tell them . . . '  
  
'They won't listen!' she replied, her anger and frustration evident in the snap of each gesture. 'They just turn their backs on what they don't want to 'hear' and go right ahead with whatever they want! It's like I don't even have a choice! They make all the decisions and tell me about them when they're ready! I hate them.'  
  
'No you don't,' Gary returned. 'If you did, it wouldn't hurt so much.'  
  
Kelley paused in mid-gesture. She seemed suddenly unsure of herself. Gary chose to press his advantage.  
  
'It hurts because you want to love them,' he told her. 'You want them to see you as a person, not a handicap. I know how that is. I've been there. I wanted to die, too.'  
  
'But you didn't,' she observed, her gestures hesitant. 'What changed your mind?'  
  
'I didn't really have a choice,' he admitted. 'When the urge to die was strongest, I was in no shape to do anything about it. I couldn't walk, and both of my hands were useless at the time. I couldn't even feed myself. I was totally helpless.' He glanced down at the cane he had dropped, and then at his injured shoulder. 'Not much of an improvement, is it?' he signed with a rueful smile.  
  
'Not really,' Kelley had to agree. A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. 'Do you really think they'll listen?'  
  
'I'll make them listen,' he assured her. 'They may be able to turn away, but they can't turn off their ears. I can be a real pest when I have to be'  
  
That brought a short bark of laughter from the hearing impaired girl. It was the first sound Gary had heard her make. 'I'll bet you can,' she signed. Kelley walked up to him and retrieved his cane. Handing it to him, she signed, 'Let me help you down those stairs. You look tired.'  
  
'Exhausted,' Gary admitted. He reached for the cane, his hand shaking. As he grasped it, all the strength seemed to go out of him. The cane clattered to the rooftop as he sank to his knees. 'I'm not very good on stairs right now,' he signed wearily.   
  
'Let me read your lips,' the girl suggested with an impish grin, as she helped Gary back to his feet . 'Your 'accent' is horrible.'  
  
"You try doing this with a hole in your shoulder sometime," he said out loud. "On second thought, don't. It's a royal pain in more ways than one. Now, let's go find your folks so I can chew their ears off."  
  
'My,' the girl signed, giggling. 'That's a lovely picture.'  
  
"Just what I need," Gary sighed. "A deaf comedienne."  
  
*****************  
  
Kelley helped Gary down to the top floor, where they took an elevator to the ward where his room was located. They had no sooner stepped out of the cab than a flock of nurses and orderlies descended on the hapless pair. Gary was hustled back to his room where he was quickly, and thoroughly checked over by his nurse. He'd hung on to Kelley's hand during all of this, keeping her close. He didn't want her out of his sight until he had talked with her parents. Still, he had to wonder how the nurse could hear anything through that stethoscope while she was chewing him out for his little disappearing act..   
  
"We've had security combing this building from top to bottom," the woman grumbled as she stuck the business end of a thermometer in his mouth. "When I came in and saw you gone and all that blood, I just knew someone had snuck in and murdered you, dragging your body away for some nefarious ritual or something." She snatched the instrument from his mouth and checked the results. "That young officer is going to have to answer for his dereliction," she sniffed. "I don't know how you managed to sneak that cat in here, or where the little beast disappeared to, but I will find out." She turned her penetrating glare on the girl. "And what were you doing out of your room, young lady, and what were you doing with our wandering boy, here?" she asked pointedly, as if she were certain they had been up to something they shouldn't have been..  
  
"She can't hear you," Gary told her. "She's deaf, so save the sarcasm. Her name is Kelley and she was helping me back to my room."  
  
"She should be in her own room," the nurse snorted. "Her parents are probably looking for her by now. Come with me, young lady," she added, holding out her hand to the girl. "We'll find out where you belong."  
  
"No!" Gary's grip on Kelley's hand tightened slightly. "She wants me to speak with her parents," he told the obnoxious nurse. "I promised that I would. Her name is Kelley Mason and she's here for testing to see if she's eligible for a new surgical procedure to restore her hearing. When you find her parents, you can tell them where she is, but she's not leaving this room until they get here. I promised her."  
  
"Now, see here, Mr. Hobson . . ."  
  
"I promised her," Gary repeated firmly.  
  
The two of them, patient and nurse, locked gazes in a battle of wills. Gary's eyes never wavered. It was the officious nurse who finally looked away. "Very well," she sighed as she turned to go. "I'll let her charge nurse know where she is. But you leave that door open."  
  
"Why?" Gary asked, puzzled by the order. The nurse directed a significant look at the young girl, then to where their hands were intertwined. Gary's mouth fell open as the implication hit him. "You're sick, you know that? Get outta here!"  
  
The nurse left in a huff, only to be replaced by one thoroughly chagrined police officer. The young cop set his chair just inside the door and plopped into it, giving his charge a suspicious glare. An hour later, Gary's parents showed up to take him home. He quickly explained that he couldn't leave until he had spoken with Kelley's parents.   
  
Eric Mason and his wife, whom he introduced as Irene, finally showed up around ten o'clock. She was quick to explain that they had been on the phone with a clinic in New York about yet another 'miracle cure' for their daughter.  
  
"She doesn't want it," Gary told them before Mrs. Mason could finish talking.  
  
It took her a moment to shift gears. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Kelley," Gary explained, indicating the girl huddled protectively against his mother. "She does not want it. She's tired of all the tests, and the surgeries, the doctors poking and prodding. She wants to know when she gets a say in any of this."  
  
"She's always . . . I mean, we're doing this for her!" Eric stammered. "What kind of parents would we be if we didn't exhaust every possibility to make her well again?"  
  
"She's not sick," Gary told them, keeping his head angled so that Kelley could understand what he was saying. "She's deaf. An illness may've caused it, b-but it is not an illness anymore. It's a condition. Her hearing was damaged, not her brain. I-I don't understand you people. You . . . you learned to sign so that you could communicate with your daughter, then you ignore what she has to say! She was a baby when she lost her hearing, and she doesn't miss it! What she is missing is the way other parents treat their kids: like people. Kelley likes softball and ice skating. She likes picnics in the park on a sunny day and flying kites. She likes lying outside on a warm night and picking out the constellations. She doesn't like being treated like a lab rat. She loves you two so much that she was willing to kill herself rather than put you through another disappointment. How . . . how much do you love her? Enough to stop looking for a 'cure?' Enough to actually discuss her options with her instead of making all the decisions for her? Do you love her enough . . . enough to let her make up her own mind, even if she disagrees with what you think is best for her? I guess what I'm really asking is . . . do you love her in spite of the fact that she isn't perfect?"  
  
Stunned, the Masons looked over at their daughter, who was staring anxiously back. "Is that true?" Eric Mason asked, signing as he spoke. "Did you . . .did you try to . . ." He couldn't bring himself to even finish the thought.  
  
He didn't have to. Tears streaming down her elfin features, Kelley nodded. 'I couldn't get you to listen,' she signed. 'I was so tired of it all and I didn't know what else to do.'  
  
Irene Mason turned frightened eyes on Gary. "H-how. . . I-I mean . . . wh-what was she . . .?"  
  
"She was on the roof," was all Gary had to say.  
  
All the color drained from the couple's faces as their minds filled in the silence with nightmare images. Eric stepped forward and pulled his daughter into a crushing embrace. They could hear him whispering, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God!" He finally let her go, signing rapidly. 'I promise, no more tests unless you agree to them. I love you so much!'  
  
'I love you, too, Daddy,' Kelley replied. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand, then added, 'Can we go home, now?'  
  
'Of course we can, sweetheart,' Irene signed. Then she turned her tear streaked face to meet Gary's concerned gaze. "To answer your questions, Mr. Hobson, we really do love our little girl. We just didn't realize she was already perfect, just the way she is." She, too, gave her daughter a warm hug. "Just the way she is."  
  
*****************  
  
After dragging the whole story from Gary and their daughter, the Masons thanked him profusely before taking Kelley back to her room. As they disappeared out the door, Gary lay back with a sigh.  
  
"You've had a busy morning," his mother observed as she took the chair Kelley had vacated. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Tired," he admitted. "The hardest part was getting to the roof." He shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust his arm in the sling, and ease the throbbing pain in his shoulder. "She didn't really wanna die," he murmured. "She was just tired of feeling like a lab rat."  
  
Bernie was looking at the Paper in Gary's lap with such longing that Gary had to chuckle. His mom usually got to it before his dad could and doled out 'errands' carefully.   
  
"It's okay, Dad," Gary told his father. "Everything's taken care of," he added with a sidelong glance at his bodyguard. They had to be careful what they said so long as Gary was being watched this closely. He looked over at his mother. "We're just waiting for Dr. Creek to make her rounds and discharge me. She's gotta give me a whole list of instructions and probably read me the riot act for this latest escapade." He glanced at his watch, which no longer covered his makeshift bandage. Earlier, the nurse had cleaned the results of his clumsy extraction of the IV and covered the wound with a thick bandage. "It shouldn't be much longer."  
  
"Good," Lois smiled as she stood up once more. "I'll pack your things while you get cleaned up. We brought you a change of clothes," she added, indicating the carryall at Bernie's feet. "As soon as you change, we'll just toss everything into one of those plastic laundry bags and blow this joint."   
  
"Blow this joint?" Gary repeated as he swung his legs off the bed with a groan. "You been watching those old Bogart movies again?"  
  
"The Mystery Channel is having a film festival," she admitted. "It's addictive." She was looking under the bed, one bedroom slipper in her hand. "Bernie, can you see his other slipper on your side? I can't find it."  
  
Bernie bent down until he was looking at his wife from the underside of the bed. "I don't see it, hon," he told her. They both raised their heads, looking straight at Gary with a wordless question.  
  
"Oh! Um, I, ahm, I think it's i-in the parking lot . . . or-or someplace like that," he stammered. He straightened with an effort, returning their chagrined stares with a slightly indignant one of his own. "Well, I had to get her attention somehow!"  
  
**************  
  
The young officer helped Gary from the van, then held his hand out to assist Lois. Bernie handed Gary's carryall to Lois before stepping out onto the sidewalk himself. As he closed the heavy door, he glanced over at the 'handicapped' sign in front of the van. Hopefully, they wouldn't need the special parking permit much longer. In spite of recent set backs, Gary was showing definite progress. His physical therapist seemed to think he could be back to one hundred percent by the end of May. She certainly seemed determined that he would walk her down the aisle in a few weeks.  
  
"We should get you straight upstairs and into bed," Lois was saying as they entered the bar. "You don't want to over do it your first day home."  
  
"Mom!" Gary sighed in exasperation. "I've been in bed over a week, now! C-couldn't I just . . . just sit at the bar for a little while? Go over the books? Something? Anything but climb those stairs!"  
  
Lois Hobson started to argue the issue, but the pleading look her son gave her at that moment stopped her. He was right. This was his first day back home after yet another life-threatening injury, he was a grown man, and he should be allowed to make these decisions for himself.   
  
"You'll let me know when you're ready to tackle those stairs?" she asked, her tone saying that he had better say yes.  
  
"Of course I will, Mom," he sighed, looking around at the light dinner crowd. There were few within hearing distance, fortunately. "I thought you weren't gonna . . . I mean . . ."  
  
Lois winced as she caught on to what he was trying not to say out loud. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?" she murmured. "Sorry, sweetie. It's hard to remember, sometimes. Motherhood doesn't come with an 'off' switch."  
  
Bernie set the carryall down at the end of the bar and took his wife by the elbow. "I've got a wonderful idea, Lois," he said, leading her away from the counter. "Why don't you and I go for a little drive, have a nice quiet lunch for two, before we have to go look at another house." He leaned in close to whisper in her ear. "He's being watched like a hawk," he told her quietly, nodding his head toward the officer. "Let's cut the poor kid a little slack."  
  
"You're right," she sighed. "I keep forgetting about that." Lois turned and went back to the bar, stepping up to the police officer. "I know you're only here for another hour or so, but I'd like to remind you that my son's life is in your hands. Don't fumble the ball."  
  
"Mom!"  
  
Lois threw both hands in the air and took a step back. "That's all I'm going to say," she promised. "We'll go, now. Gary, please don't wear yourself out. When you feel tired, at least stretch out on the sofa in your office for awhile."  
  
"I will, Mom," he promised, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Now, go on. I'll be fine."  
  
As soon as they were gone, the officer took up residence by the front door while Gary retreated to his office to catch up on a week's worth of paperwork. Marissa joined him for just a few minutes. She was dressed especially nice, and wore a sweet, but subtle perfume.  
  
"You look great," Gary complimented her, taking an appreciative sniff. "Smell nice, too. Special occasion?"  
  
"Emmett is taking me out for a late lunch," Marissa explained. "He was sounding very nervous, and more than a little mysterious," she added with a strained laugh. She sat across from her partner and reached out to take his left hand. "I think this is it, Gary. I think he's going to propose. What should I say?"  
  
"What do you want to say?" Gary asked her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.  
  
"Yes! I want to say yes," she replied, her words coming out in a rush. "Oh, Gary! I love him so much! I'm . . . I'm actually terrified of losing him!"  
  
"Then you've answered your own question," he told her, his voice soft and low. "He's a very lucky man to've found someone like you, Marissa. I hope you two have a wonderful life together."   
  
"Thank you," she sighed. "Oh! What if he doesn't propose? What if he wants to break up with me and just wants to let me down easy? What if . . .?"  
  
"What if you both get snatched by UFOs?" Gary interrupted her with a wry chuckle. He released her hand, reaching up to caress her cheek. "The guy is nuts over you. He was over at the hospital a coupla times. Every time your name was mentioned he got this . . . look of . . . rapture on his face. That's the only way I can describe it. Just relax and let Emmett have his big moment. If he does propose, he's probably been working up to it for weeks. It took me over a month to work up the nerve to propose to Marcia."  
  
Marissa sat back with a sigh. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Have you noticed that you can talk about her a lot easier, now?" she asked her friend. "All the . . . bitterness seems to be gone from your voice when you mention her name. Do you think that, maybe, you're finally over her?"  
  
Gary fingered the sling confining his right arm as he pondered the question. "I think so," he finally replied. "I-I guess I've been hanging on to . . . to the idea of . . . of what we had for so long . . . Then all this . . . stuff kept happening. I-it happened so fast, too. Suddenly I just don't see the sense in brooding about the past anymore. I mean, yeah, I'm having to see a therapist a-about these . . . these dreams, but that's still a positive step, don't you think? It's . . . it's getting things in perspective, sorta."  
  
A hesitant knock on the door, and a muffled, "Marissa?" cut off whatever reply she was going to make.   
  
"Just a moment, Emmett," she called out to the man on the other side of the door. As she rose to go, she turned her sightless eyes to face Gary, saying, "Maybe it's time we both got our happy endings."  
  
****************  
  
A little while later, Gary returned to the barroom. He suddenly felt the need to have people around him. His conversation with Marissa had left him feeling a little melancholy, yet oddly at peace. It was as if he had passed some hurdle, and could now get started on the rest of his life. He managed to carry some of the invoices he had been working on into the main room and spread them on the smaller of the two counters. Doing everything left handed was a little awkward, but he found that he could manage. He just hoped he could read his own handwriting later.  
  
Gary wasn't sure how much time had passed when something hit the countertop with a loud bang. Almost simultaneously, his ears rang with a familiar cry.   
  
"Hobson!"  
  
Startled, he spun around, almost falling off his stool. A strong hand reached out quickly to steady him. Breathing fast, his heart racing, Gary looked up to see Marion Crumb scowling at him with what could be a look of concern. Or irritation. It was hard to say, with Crumb.  
  
"Christ, Crumb!" he gasped, his left hand pressed to his injured shoulder. The sudden motion had sent a sharp pain through his wound. "I just got out of the hospital! Don't be in such a hurry to send me back!"  
  
"Recognize this?" the big detective asked, indicating the object he had slammed on the counter.   
  
Gary looked down to see that the object which had hit the counter so hard was a shoe. Not just any shoe. He winced slightly as he recognized his missing slipper.   
  
"Y-yeah," he stammered. "Um, wh-where . . .?"  
  
"I had to take a buddy of mine to the ER this morning," Crumb told him. "His appendix was actin' up or somethin'. They had to operate, but he's fine. Anyway, I'm walkin' back to the parkin' lot when somethin' klonks me on the back of the head. I look around," he adds, acting out the scene, "thinkin' I'm bein' attacked. Nobody in sight. So I look down to see what hit me. What do I find? A shoe! Some bozo has hit me . . . in the head . . . with a freakin' shoe! So I pick it up. Look for something to identify the owner." He picked the slipper up, pointing to a piece of tape across the heel. "G. Hobson. Now, do you know that there was only one G. Hobson in the hospital at that time? If I hadn't already been late meetin' a client I woulda turned right around and returned it to ya right away! God forbid you should have to walk around with only one shoe!" He leaned in until he was practically nose to nose with the younger man. "So tell me, Hobson, what you were doin' throwin' slippers outta yer window?"  
  
"I-it wasn't out my . . . my window," Gary told him nervously. "Th-there was this . . . this girl . . . on the roof. She was . . . she's deaf and she was . . . I had to . . . I-it's complicated."  
  
"So uncomplicate it."  
  
Gary's mind raced as he tried to come up with an explanation that his friend would believe. Or one that at least sounded plausible. "C-could I get you some . . . some coffee . . . or something?" he asked, stalling for time.  
  
"Sure," Crumb shrugged, settling onto the stool next to Gary. He turned to Jimmy, who was manning the counter. "Black. Now give. What were you doin' on the roof in the first place?"  
  
"I-I wanted some . . . some fresh air?" Gary stammered lamely.   
  
"So you rip out your IV," Crumb filled in, "ditch the guy who's there to keep you outta trouble, climb three flights of stairs, leaning on a cane all the way, just to take a stroll on the roof. Do I look stupid? Don't answer that!"  
  
"H-how'd you know a-about . . .?"  
  
"You're the talk of the floor," Crumb grunted. "They don't mention you by name," he hurried to add, "but I knew who they were complainin' about as soon as they mentioned the cat. You ever think there's somethin' weird about that cat? He 's always showin' up at the strangest . . ."  
  
"H-he's just a cat," Gary stammered hurriedly. "All cat's are a-a little . . . strange. A-anyway, um, I saw this girl. She was . . . was standing there, looking over the edge like . . . I-I recognized her a-and knew she was . . . was deaf, so I . . . I had to . . . She looked like she was gonna . . . So I . . . I told you it was complicated."  
  
"You really expect me to believe that malarkey?" Crumb snorted derisively. "I've heard better fairytales when I was a kid. You knew that girl was up there," he insisted. "You knew she was gonna jump. So how . . .? Never mind. I don't wanna know."  
  
"Then why do you keep asking?" Gary grumbled. "You . . . you do this to me every time! Push me into a corner, then throw your hands up and walk away! If you don't think you'll like the answers, why bother with the questions?"  
  
"Cause I love watchin' you scramble for answers," the ex-cop chuckled. "You always get this 'look' on yer face. Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Besides, it's good practice for ya. Ya gotta learn ta keep a poker-face, kid, or people'll see right through you every time."  
  
Gary leaned against the counter as Crumb paused to sip at the steaming cup Jimmy had finally set before him. "S-so this is kinda like little . . . what'll we call it . . . life lessons?" he mused. "You got me in some sorta training program to make me a better liar?"  
  
"Mostly just tryin' to keep you alive," Crumb shrugged. "You got a good heart, kid, but your survival instincts are lousy. What if your leg had given out halfway up those stairs? We'd be pickin' up pieces of you . . . again. And that little girl would be dead."  
  
"There wasn't any time to get help," Gary mumbled, picking distractedly at his sling. His gaze was fixed on some spot on the floor, but he wasn't really seeing it. "It takes too long, sometimes, to get people to believe me."  
  
"So, you do know . . . things," Crumb sighed. Gary just nodded wordlessly without meeting his eyes. "I'm not sure I wanna get into this kinda mumbo-jumbo," the ex-cop shivered. "Gives me the creeps."  
  
"You could try just trusting me," the young barkeep murmured dismally. "I-I know I've led you on . . . on some wild chases s-sometimes, and I know I don't do everything . . . right, but have I ever steered you wrong?"  
  
"Not on purpose, no," Crumb agreed. He looked around, as if just noticing that something was missing. "Aren't you supposed to have a bodyguard until this mess is cleared up?"  
  
"Um, y-yeah," Gary stammered. "H-he had to, um . . . He made the mistake of asking Jake for something hot. Then he made the mistake of eating it." He glanced at his watch, calculating the elapsed time. "He should be out soon."  
  
"Poor guy," Crumb chuckled. "I thought you were gonna have a talk with your cook about toning it down?"  
  
"Oh, I did," Gary sighed. "Now he uses the stuff that doesn't start burning until you've finished about half the meal. I think I'm gonna have to let him go. Too many customers are starting to complain. And I'm worried that the health department might step in. Thing is, except for this incendiary hang-up, he's a great cook."  
  
"So tell 'im to hang up the flame thrower or hit the road," the ex-cop shrugged. "You're the boss. Act like one. You didn't have any trouble firing that Patrick kid."  
  
"But I knew he already had another job offer," Gary shrugged, wincing. "He had that teaching position in Oregon. H-he just had a bad case of cold feet."  
  
"God!" Crumb shivered. "That gives me the creeps. That airhead influencing' young minds. Brrrr!"  
  
"No, no!" Gary hurried to his ex-employee's defense. "Patrick is doin' great! He can really relate to young kids, and he has a good heart. I called and checked on him while I was in L. A. They love him up there."  
  
"Is that what he told you?" Crumb asked suspiciously.  
  
"No," Gary grumbled. "I talked with the principal and his secretary. They spoke very highly of him. He's still as ditzy as ever, but that just makes the kids love him even more. And he's very creative. H-he's even got a girlfriend."  
  
"You're kiddin'!" the detective exclaimed. "Who . . .?"  
  
"Another kindergarten teacher," Gary explained. "They've been dating for a few months, now. It sounds pretty serious." His tone had changed. He sounded almost . . . wistful, sad.  
  
Crumb slapped him gently on his good shoulder. "Well, I'd better get goin'. I gotta meet with another client," he explained. He studied his young friend. Gary had just nodded without saying a word, lost in his own thoughts. "It'll happen to you, too," he promised as he rose to go. "You won't be alone forever."  
  
As the big detective disappeared through the front door, Gary's eyes rose to take in the light afternoon 'late lunch' crowd. They were mostly young couples who gazed longingly into each other's eyes, laughed at little jokes, and mainly seemed to be enjoying being with someone they loved. As he had once done with Marcia. A feeling he had sought to recapture, first with Meredith, then with Emma. Once in a while, he was almost sure that he and Brigatti would click, but they had mostly clashed. As he saw a young man reach over to give his girl a gentle kiss, Gary turned in his seat so that he wouldn't have to see, Crumb's parting words echoing in his mind. "Wanna bet?" he sighed.  
  
****************  
  
Gary had finally finished his paperwork and told the long suffering officer that he was going to be in his office if anyone needed him.   
  
"And I'm really sorry about . . . Jake gets a little carried away sometimes," he explained by way of apology.   
  
"I've had worse," the officer assured him with a wan smile. "I guess we should both be glad nothing happened while I was . . . indisposed."  
  
"Yeah," Gary chuckled. "You're right about that. Um, I-I'm gonna stretch out for a bit, then maybe I'll feel like tackling those stairs."  
  
"My relief should be here any minute," the other man shrugged. "Lt. Armstrong is going to bring him by. I'll let them know where you are. Just give me a minute, first, to make sure you're not gonna be disturbed."  
  
After a quick check of the office and the back rooms, Gary was allowed to go back into his office. Once the paperwork was safely stacked on his desk, the lure of the couch proved irresistible. With a heartfelt sigh, he stretched out to his full length, his left arm across his eyes to block out the light.  
  
It felt as if he had just laid down when he heard a brisk knock on his door. 'Now what?'  
  
"Who's there?" he wearily called out.  
  
"Changing of the guard, Hobson," Paul Armstrong replied. "Time to meet your new roommate."  
  
With a weary sigh, Gary tried to sit up, then decided it was too much trouble. "C'mon in," he said, just loud enough to be heard through the door.  
  
The door opened to admit the big detective, closely followed by General Hammond and a young man in casual Marine uniform. Struggling upright, Gary swung his long legs off the sofa so that he could face the three men. He almost fell back, but was saved by a quick grab from Armstrong.  
  
"Graceful, Hobson," the detective grinned as he helped Gary to sit up. "I see we caught you at a bad time."  
  
"I haven't had too many good ones, lately," Gary grumbled good naturedly. He held his good hand out to the Air Force officer. "You're looking good, General."  
  
"Wish I could say the same for you, son," Hammond chuckled. "How do you feel?"  
  
"I-I've been better." He looked to the young gunnery sergeant who was standing 'at ease' one step behind the officer. "My new babysitter?"  
  
"Yes," Hammond smiled. "Sergeant Jason Curtis, here, is one of the best in my command at hand-to-hand combat. He's also an expert marksman."  
  
"You make it sound like he'll be leading an assault behind enemy lines," Gary chuckled. "Nice to meet you, sergeant. Have a seat. Can I get you guys anything?"  
  
The general shook his head as he settled into Gary's desk chair. Armstrong perched on the corner of the desk, while the sergeant remained standing. Gary hoped the young man was able to loosen up just a little once they were alone.  
  
"We just came by to introduce you two," Hammond told him. "Sergeant Curtis has been instructed to not let you out of his sight for a moment. No matter where you go, or what you do, he'll be there to watch your back until this mystery is cleared up."  
  
'Oh, joy,' Gary sighed to himself. 'Things keep getting better and better.' "Th-thanks, sir," he said aloud. "A-and I mean that sincerely, but I can't help but think that this was all some kinda mistake, ya know? After all, I'm just . . . just a barkeep! Who'd wanna . . .?"  
  
"I thought we'd compiled a pretty good list at the hospital," Armstrong reminded him. "Whether you believe it or not, Hobson, you have enemies. At least one that hates you bad enough to kill. There was half a clip of live ammo in that gun that was specially made to look like blanks. That was no accident."  
  
Gary sat back with a sigh, having to concede the point. Just the idea that someone had put that much thought and effort into ending his life saddened him. It wasn't like he went out of his way to tick people off, after all. Somehow, it just seemed to . . . happen.  
  
"So, how long are we gonna keep this up?" he asked dismally. "Until they're caught?"  
  
"Exactly," Hammond replied. "No other conclusion is acceptable." He placed both hands on his knees as he met Gary's harried gaze. "When we first met, you had already proven yourself a very determined and resourceful individual. Through no fault of your own, you ended up in a highly classified facility."  
  
Gary shot the general, then Armstrong, an alarmed glance. Should they be talking about this in front of the detective?  
  
"I've been cleared for limited access," Armstrong informed him dryly. "Nothing specific. Just enough to know that you have this amazing talent for ending up in places you don't belong."  
  
"Yeah? Well, when you figure out where I do belong," Gary grumbled, "let me know. I'm still working on that, myself." Turning back to the general, he asked, "So, you still think this could have something to do w-with what I stumbled onto last year?"  
  
"Until we know for certain who's behind this attack," the officer nodded, "we have to act on that assumption. Granted, Mr. Hobson, you are by no means under my command. Still, I feel that I would be derelict in my duty not to extend my resources to include you."  
  
"Makes me sound like an oil well, or something," Gary sighed. "Have you guys been able to narrow down the suspects?" he asked Armstrong. "Just a little?"  
  
"Not by much," the detective admitted ruefully. "The APB on that smuggler drew a blank, locally. Word is that he took off for Canada the day he got out. Baylor is on Death Row. The only way he could get to you is to hire someone. He has a cell right next to the fellow who framed Ricky Brown. The two hitmen that you and Miss Carson apprehended are keeping them company. No word, yet, on the embezzler that you and Miguel caught. I believe he was able to plea bargain his case down to a lesser sentence, but I don't have enough information to know for sure. Not one of my cases. Our two terrorists got out about a week before the shooting. Some technicality. They immediately skipped the country. Last we heard, they were on a plane headed for the Middle East. The turncoat D.A. you and Brigatti put away is in a federal penitentiary. He may get out before the end of this century. And the gentleman Crumb told us about is still awaiting his next appeal. That pretty much eliminates your average grade of killer and leaves us with the . . . covert variety."  
  
"Which puts you right back in my hands," Hammond told him. "For your own safety, I'm tempted to sequester you at the Complex."  
  
"No!" Gary stated firmly, alarmed that the military officer might insist on just that. "You know I can't do that."  
  
"I do know that," the general nodded solemnly. "That's why we have Sgt. Curtis here. We will do everything in our power to keep you alive, Mr. Hobson. If for no other reason, than because we still don't know how it is you do whatever it is that you do."  
  
"Good luck!" Armstrong snorted. "I've been trying to weasel that out of him for over two years now."  
  
*************  
  
As Armstrong was preparing to take his officer back to the precinct, Gary noticed the young policeman holding a whispered conference with Sgt. Curtis. Whatever he was saying seemed fairly urgent, with an occasional sidelong glance toward Armstrong. When Curtis cast a startled look in the direction of the kitchen, however, Gary knew what was going on. The officer, Davis, was warning Curtis about Jake.   
  
'I'd better have another talk with him,' Gary sighed inwardly. He had a lot of respect for the cook's abilities, and really liked him as a person, even though he could be a bit stand-offish and arrogant. The man definitely had a high opinion of himself, and could be as stubborn as a mule when it came to 'his' kitchen.  
  
"We need to talk, son," Hammond told him as they watched the big detective lead his officer away. "As you are well aware, our . . . project is about as highly classified as they come. Still, I have no fear that the Russians, or any other foreign country, is out to kill you."  
  
"Th-that's comforting to know," Gary winced. That was an aspect he hadn't even considered until Paul had mentioned the word 'covert.'   
  
"The thing is," the general continued, ignoring the sarcasm, "we've had some trouble in the past with a splinter group."  
  
"A-a splinter group," Gary repeated. "As in a, ahm, a faction within our . . . our own ranks?"  
  
"Essentially, yes," Hammond sighed. "They think we should be using the device to, shall we say, better advantage."  
  
"In other words," Gary murmured, "to rip off everyone in sight."  
  
"You have a . . . pretty good grasp of the situation," the general admitted. "They've caused us considerable trouble in the past. We thought we had managed to cripple them, but recent events indicate that such might not be the case."  
  
"General Hammond," Gary sighed. "I've been to college and consider myself at least marginally well educated. But all this verbal dancing around is giving me a headache. Could we, possibly, just . . . skip the waltz and get to the point?"  
  
Hammond fought to suppress a grin at the younger man's outspoken attitude. In many ways, he seemed a cross between both Daniel Jackson and Jack O'Neill. Right now, he was definitely leaning toward the O'Neill perspective.  
  
"The point is that this attack on you could be revenge on us," he finally replied. "These people are not rational, however they may see themselves as looking after the best interests of our country. They will do whatever it takes, make any sacrifice, to accomplish their goals. Even to the point of killing an innocent civilian to prove how defenseless we are. We are not defenseless, Mr. Hobson."  
  
"Mr. Hobson is my grandfather," Gary murmured absently. "Seeing as how you're providing one of my babysitters, you can call me Gary. S-so these guys would kill me just to show they could do it? Are they . . . never mind. Of course they're nuts." He hung his head and sighed. "Lord help me! What have I gotten myself into, now?"  
  
"As I recall," Hammond chuckled, "you didn't exactly initiate 'first contact' with our project. You were kidnapped, beaten, and smuggled into the complex in a crate. You were then thrown through the . . . device . . . like a rag doll. I don't see you as having brought any of this on yourself."  
  
"Then . . . wh-why do these things keep happening to me?" Gary asked plaintively. "I try to be a good person! To do the best I can . . ."  
  
"Mr. Hobson. Gary," Hammond interrupted him. "I don't have any answers for you on that score. From what I've seen and heard, you don't deserve any of the terrible things that you've been through over the past year. Still, because of what's happened to you, you've been in the right place, at the right time, to affect a great deal of good. If you hadn't been on that airliner last December, it would've crashed during the landing. Or, if successfully rerouted, it would have collided with another aircraft when that surge hit our base. Which you couldn't have prevented if you hadn't been aware of the project. There, alone, you saved over two hundred lives. If not for being practically run out of your home town, and then unable to sleep in your own apartment, you would not have been there to save that little boy. For every bad thing that has happened to you, you have accomplished at least as much good. If not more."  
  
Gary sat back with an explosive sigh. He'd never looked at it like that, although he had been dealing with the 'Domino Effect' since the first time he'd gotten serious about the Paper. It had just never really sunk in, until now, that the force behind the mystic periodical might set him up to be where he needed to be with such elaborate, and painful, machinations!   
  
"If you extend that to include recent events," he observed dryly, "then I was shot just so that I could be in the right place to stop a suicide this morning."  
  
"Excuse me?" the general asked. "What suicide? I wasn't . . ."  
  
Gary quickly filled him in on the events of that morning, then elicited a promise that no action would be taken against Officer Davis. "The guy was just trying to do his job," Gary assured him, "but I'd 've never been able to explain it in time, so I had to give him the slip. Man, I hope he doesn't get in Dutch with Armstrong over that."  
  
"I'll see what I can do to run interference," Hammond promised. "But that just illustrates my point. Bad things happen to you, so that you can do good things for others. That doesn't mean you're not still in danger from the person who put the live ammo in that clip. He, or she, went to much too much trouble to doctor those rounds."  
  
"That's comforting to know," Gary snorted. "At least I'm not dealing with an amateur."  
  
"Actually," the officer chuckled grimly, "that is a good thing. Amateurs can be much more dangerous. A pro has developed patterns and signatures that can ultimately trip them up. An amateur is like a tornado in a trailer park. Totally unpredictable. You just don't know which way to run."  
  
****************  
  
When the general had finally gone, Gary decided it was time to do something about Jake. He spent a good hour on the phone before calling the volatile chef into his office. Sgt. Curtis stood near the door as the wiry, sandy-haired man plopped into the chair in front of Gary's desk.  
  
"Hope this doesn't take too long, boss man," Jake grumbled irritably. "I have to get ready for the evening crowd."  
  
"No," Gary sighed. "You don't. Jake, my patrons don't come here to get turned inside out . . . in a gastronomical sense. They come to relax, have a light meal, maybe, and a few drinks. Lately, in spite of repeated warnings to tone it down, your . . . creations . . . have gotten more and more . . . inflammatory."  
  
"Are you telling me to stop it?" Jake snorted. "Again?"  
  
Gary bit his lip as he tried not to react to Jake's arrogant tone. "You, um, seem to be under the impression that our roles are reversed here, Jake," he told the man evenly. "That you don't have to listen to me. Well, I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but you're sadly mistaken. I've had numerous complaints about how hot some of your dishes have become. At the very least, you could've done as I suggested and had the foods rated on the menu. Give people a choice as to whether or not they want their intestines sand blasted."  
  
"But, these are great dishes!" the chef insisted, suddenly unsure of himself. "People need to discover for themselves . . ."  
  
"People don't come to a sports bar for new culinary experiences," Gary reminded him bluntly. "They come to relax and unwind, not to keep the emergency rooms in business. Now, I'd be well within my rights to just fire you and get it over with. However," he hurriedly added at Jake's stricken look, "there's a new restaurant over on Lakeshore that specializes in just the type of cuisine you've grown so fond of creating." He handed Jake an envelope with a hastily scrawled address on the front. "I set you up with an interview for tomorrow at ten. They seem real anxious to talk to you."  
  
Numbly, Jake took the envelope from his ex-bosses hand. "Y-you didn't . . . I'm really fired?" he stammered. "Who's gonna cover the dinner crowd?"  
  
"Carlos is working out quite well," Gary replied with a tired smile. "I'll be having a talk with him shortly." He leaned back with a sigh, waving his good hand at the envelope. "There's a letter of reference in there, and a severance check for three weeks pay. This is for a head chef position, Jake, and they could really use you."  
  
Jake's expression brightened at the news. He stared at Gary, then at the packet in his hands. "That's . . . that's more than generous," he murmured numbly. "Head chef. Wow. You . . . you didn't have to . . ."  
  
"I have this thing about adding to the unemployment line," Gary replied with a quiet chuckle. He stood, holding his good hand out to Jake. "Good luck on your new job, and keep in touch."  
  
Still reeling from the suddenness of it all, Jake stood and shook the proffered hand. "Sure, Gary," he murmured. "I-I'll stop by . . . once in . . . I'm really . . .?"  
  
"Yes, Jake," Gary told him. "You're really fired. Honestly, I think you'll be much happier in your new job. The manager said his last candidate was a wuss in the spice department."  
  
"Sounds like my kind of place," the fiery chef chuckled. "Thanks, Gary. It's been . . . interesting working here."  
  
"That's one way to put it," Gary murmured as his former chef disappeared out the door. Jake was on duty the day hitmen had shot up the bar. For some reason, what he recalled most clearly about that day was lying on top of a towel-clad Brigatti. With a shake of his head, Gary dismissed the image and got back to the pile of paperwork that seemed to grow whenever he wasn't looking.  
  
"That was pretty smooth," Sgt. Curtis commented from his position by the door. The man had yet to sit in Gary's presence. His lips did twitch in an amused half smile as he stared straight ahead. "You'd make a lousy drill instructor."  
  
"I'm saving my voice for rehearsal," Gary chuckled. "Would you please sit down someplace? I-it makes me nervous you standing over me like that."  
  
"Sorry, sir" the young Marine told him, "but I'm supposed to be ready for trouble at all times."  
  
"I'm not an officer," Gary sighed, "so don't call me 'sir.' It's Gary, and you might as well get comfortable. Unless you plan to stand around like that for the next coupla days."  
  
Curtis finally lowered his eyes to meet Gary's amused gaze. Almost reluctantly, he relaxed his rigid stance and took a seat in a chair near the door.  
  
"Thank you," Gary nodded, returning to his unending task. "You think I was too easy on him?"  
  
"Easy!" the young NCO snorted. "You practically rewarded him for disobedience. Got him a nice cushy job at another restaurant."  
  
"For one thing," Gary replied, not looking up, "there's nothing cushy about running a kitchen. It's hard work. For another, I hate to see talent go to waste. He's good at what he does, but he's just got this hang up about peppers. The hotter the better, as far as he's concerned. I take it you don't approve."  
  
"Not up to me," Curtis shrugged. "It's your place."  
  
"Yes," Gary sighed. "It is." He slid the last invoice into a folder with a sigh. "I think I'm ready to go upstairs, now. C'mon and I'll show you where to hang your hat."  
  
Leading the way, Gary stumbled once going up the steep staircase. He grabbed for the handrail with his good hand, only to miss. A firm hand at the small of his back, and another under his right elbow, saved him from a nasty fall.   
  
"You okay, sir?" Curtis asked as he steadied the injured man.  
  
"I-I'm fine," Gary assured him. "Just more tired than I thought, I guess. Thanks." Without another word, he regained his balance and continued up to his loft. "You can bunk on the sofa. It folds out into a bed. And there's plenty of room in the wardrobe to hang your jacket and hat. Did you bring anything to change into?"  
  
"I left my bag downstairs, sir," Curtis told him. "I'll fetch it later."  
  
"Whenever you're ready," Gary sighed as he lowered himself onto the bed. "One more thing. You call me 'sir' one more time and I won't answer. It's Gary, Gar, pal, kid, kiddo, mac, buddy. I even answer to Hobson, on occasion. But I'm not an officer, so don't call me 'sir.' It's not appropriate. Not to me, at any rate."  
  
Having said his piece, and without waiting for a reply, Gary stretched out flat on his back and closed his eyes. Moments later, he was sound asleep.  
  
Sgt. Curtis stepped up to the bed, looking down at the man he had been assigned to guard. Gary Hobson did not look all that important, and he certainly didn't act as if he were. Still, the general had made it very clear that this man's life was every bit as important as any head-of-state or visiting dignitary. Perhaps more.  
  
**************  
  
The next few days were pretty uneventful for Gary. Most of what he had to deal with for the Paper were traffic accidents, a couple of robberies, two more suicides, and a publicity shoot gone wrong. Sgt. Curtis had proven helpful in stopping the stunt car before it could plow into the camera crew.   
  
Gary's biggest worry was getting to the Paper each morning before the young Marine. For once, though, the 'Powers' behind the periodical were cutting him some slack. He had been waking up to a rough, dry tongue rasping against his cheek, and the Paper lying under his left hand. At first, he had been both alarmed and chagrined that, in spite of the sergeant lightly dozing just a few feet away, someone could get that close to him unnoticed. He had then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least this way, he was able to conceal his 'source' from the ever-watchful soldier.   
  
It also amused him, just a little, that Curtis was so irritated at not catching the 'delivery boy.' Or had even heard Gary get up to answer the door.   
  
"How am I supposed to protect you if someone can slip by me that easy?" Curtis growled. "In the field, I wake up if a gnat sneezes. Here, I can't even hear the stomping around of a wounded man!" He shook his head sadly, his expression despondent. "Maybe I better call in for a replacement," he suggested with a sigh.  
  
"That won't be necessary," Gary assured him distractedly as he scanned the headlines. "If the next guy watches over me any closer, I won't be able to blink without it ending up in some report on the general's desk." He spared his young watchdog a rueful glance. "Got a call from Dr. Fraiser last night. She said I needed to take it easy and watch my diet better. Seems someone thinks I don't eat enough." Turning back to the Paper, he mumbled, "Now, how would she know that all the way out in Colorado? And after only three days on the job!"  
  
Curtis bit back a smile at the implied rebuke. It was Gary's idea of a back-handed compliment. It irked the civilian no end to be under constant scrutiny. The fact that Curtis was also under orders from the tiny physician to see that he at least ate properly hadn't helped matters.  
  
"Don't forget you have that appointment with the psychiatrist this morning," Curtis reminded his charge, as he cleared away the dishes.  
  
"Yes, Mother," Gary sighed. Fortunately, there was nothing in the Paper until that afternoon. That left him a little time to set up a little surprise party for Marissa and Emmett. The young lawyer had, indeed, proposed Saturday and they had set the date for late July. Gary had been delighted for his best friend and confidante and wanted to do something special for the both of them. His mother had agreed . . . so long as they kept it tasteful. Which meant that they couldn't let Bernie make any of the arrangements.  
  
Curtis poured Gary a fresh cup of coffee before sitting across from the man he was charged with protecting. "So," he murmured in an overly casual tone. "What else have you got planned for today?"  
  
Gary cocked an eyebrow at the thinly veiled reference to his 'extracurricular activities.' as Curtis liked to call his 'errands.' "Nothing this morning," he advised his bodyguard. "Don't make any hot dates for any time after two, though. And don't plan on getting to bed early."  
  
Setting his cup down with a sigh, Curtis looked over at his assignment. "How, exactly, does this work?" he asked. "You know what the day's gonna be like as soon as you wake up?"  
  
"Something like that," Gary mumbled distractedly. He took a sip of his coffee, then looked at his watch. "I'd better get cleaned up if I'm going to make that appointment." He looked ruefully down at his sling. "I'll be glad when I can take showers again. Trying to keep these stitches dry is a pain."  
  
To make matters worse, Gary had to have Sgt. Curtis help him bathe, shave, and get dressed. It was almost as if he were still in the hospital. At least Curtis didn't stick a thermometer in his mouth every time he sneezed. Instead, the sergeant used one that could be stuck in the ear canal.   
  
On the plus side, Gary found that he was becoming less dependent on the cane. It was a small victory, all things considered, but a victory nonetheless.  
  
***********  
  
The address Dr. Zimmerman had given Gary proved to be a brownstone on the west side. He had been told that, like himself, the doctor lived above his place of business, although he also taught classes at the university three days a week.  
  
"What do you know about this guy?" Curtis asked as they approached the steps.  
  
"Not much," Gary shrugged. He winced slightly as the movement caused him a twinge of pain. "Dr. Zimmerman trusts him and believes in him. I trust Dr. Zimmerman. It's not like I'm looking forward to this, but I've gotta get a handle on these nightmares or lose what little I have left that passes for sanity."  
  
Recalling that first night, when Gary had abruptly sat up in the middle of the night with a choked cry, Curtis had to agree. Instantly alert, Curtis had rolled out of bed, his weapon in hand and ready for trouble. What he had found was the man he was there to protect, sitting straight up in bed, his chest heaving, eyes staring at horrors only he could see. It had taken Curtis only a moment to determine there was no physical threat to Gary Hobson. It had taken over an hour of talking and pacing to get him calmed down enough to go back to sleep. A scenario that was repeated pretty closely the last couple of nights. As much as he distrusted 'shrinks,' Curtis had to admit that something had to be done, or Gary Hobson was in serious danger of losing his mind.  
  
Curtis made it a point to enter first, checking out the entryway and the adjoining rooms. When he was sure it was safe, he allowed Gary to enter. A middle-aged blonde woman seated at a desk in the first room on the left smiled indulgently as Curtis escorted his tight-lipped charge inside.  
  
"You must be Mr. Hobson," she said. "Please have a seat. Dr. Griner will be ready for you in just a few minutes."  
  
Hesitantly, Gary took a seat on the sofa she had indicated with a negligent wave. "No insurance forms to fill out?" he asked. "Medical history and all that?"  
  
"We get all that information from your doctor as soon as the appointment is made," the secretary replied, her voice soft and well modulated. Did she have just a trace of a southern accent? "The consent form Dr. Zimmerman had you sign was to give us access to your records. We find that saves us a good deal of time as they have to be transcribed."  
  
"Transcribed?" Gary asked, puzzled. "Why would they . . .?"  
  
At that moment, the intercom on her desk gave a soft buzz. A masculine voice said something too softly for the two men to hear. "Yes, Dr. Griner," she replied. Standing, she stepped to the door behind her desk. "Right this way, Mr. Hobson. Just Mr. Hobson," she added as Curtis also moved to rise.  
  
"I-its okay," Gary assured her. "Sgt. Curtis has to . . . to . . . h-he's just looking out for my . . . my safety."  
  
Stepping aside with an amused gleam in her eyes, the secretary held the door for the young Marine. Curtis stepped through, one hand on his sidearm, only to step back out a moment later, a look of chagrin on his youthful features.  
  
"I think you'll be okay," he murmured, resuming his seat on the couch.  
  
Puzzled, Gary allowed the blonde woman to lead him into the office. The figure seated behind a moderate sized oak desk looked up as they entered the room. Rather, he raised his head, turning it in the direction of their footsteps. It took Gary only a moment to understand Curtis' sudden reticence. Dr. Griner was a tallish man in his early fifties, his dark hair flecked with gray. Startled, Gary couldn't help but notice that the older man bore an uncanny resemblance to himself. They even had the same color eyes. The biggest difference was that . . . Dr. Griner's eyes were blind. The older man stepped out from behind his desk, his right hand extended in Gary's direction.  
  
"Mr. Hobson." he said as Gary took his hand. "It's good to meet you at last. Dr. Zimmerman has told me a great deal about you. Please have a seat," he added, indicating a vacant easy chair. "I'm William Griner, as you may have gathered by now."  
  
"Yes," Gary murmured as he settled gingerly into the chair. He now understood the secretary's accent. She had probably picked it up from her boss. While hers was barely noticeable, his spoke of a lifetime in the south. "Y-you're not from Chicago," he observed carefully.  
  
An indulgent smile flickered across the psychiatrist's pleasant features. "Old Fort, North Carolina," he replied. "Nor are you a native of Chicago, Mr. Hobson."  
  
"Gary," the younger man responded automatically. "And I'm from Indiana, originally. I-if you don't mind my asking . . ."  
  
"I lost my sight in 'Nam, Gary," Dr. Griner replied evenly. "That's one of the things that gives me a better . . . insight, if you would, into how to deal with your problem."  
  
"Y-you've been there," Gary murmured. "The whole . . . Post Traumatic Stress and all that. You know a-about the . . . the nightmares a-and such."  
  
"And you know something of dealing with the blind," Dr. Griner chuckled. "You're the first new client I've had who didn't try to overcome my lack of sight by raising his voice."  
  
"My business partner is blind," Gary told him, his own lips curving upwards just a bit. "She saw fit to see that I was well educated on the subject. Not to mention that I've had a-a little firsthand experience."  
  
Dr. Griner traced his fingertips over the Braille transcript in front of him. "So I see," he nodded. "You seem to have undergone a great deal of trauma, Gary. No wonder you're having trouble sleeping." He popped a CD into a recorder on his desk. "I hope you don't mind. Saves me from having to have someone else in here to take notes and it gives excellent playback."  
  
"Not to mention that they're harder to erase than tapes," Gary chuckled. "No, I don't mind. S-so, um, where should I begin?"  
  
"Let's start with the dreams," Griner advised. "You've apparently had a great many traumatic experiences, but only certain ones seem to be plaguing you. How do these dreams usually begin?"  
  
Over the next hour, Gary described his dreams in gruesome detail. He then tried to trace some of the distorted images back to the events that gave birth to them. This wasn't like previous 'testing' he had undergone in the past, when a judge had entertained serious doubts about his sanity. Dr. Griner listened to more than just his words. He almost seemed to be looking into Gary's soul.  
  
**************  
  
"So, how did it go?" Curtis asked as they left an hour later. "Think you accomplished anything?"  
  
"I dunno," Gary sighed as he slid into the passenger seat of the van. "It was kind of a relief to talk about it to someone without an ax to grind in any of this. And, well, you may've noticed that there was a strong resemblance . . ."  
  
"Strong!" Curtis snorted. "If you ever wanted to know what you'll look like in the next twenty years, you can quit wondering. He's a dead ringer for you."  
  
"Anyway," Gary continued, "it was kinda like talking to myself, only I didn't have to feel like a head case doing it."  
  
Curtis nodded his head thoughtfully as he guided the van onto the road. "I can see how that could be a plus," he murmured. "Still what would some college educated civilian know about the kind of real trauma that triggers PTSD. Has he ever even been shot at? Let alone shot."  
  
"Your prejudice is showing, Sarge," Gary chuckled. "I would've thought your people would've checked him out before letting me go to him."  
  
"They may have," Curtis grumbled. "Obviously, I wasn't given access to that report."  
  
"Well," Gary sighed, glad to be able to educate the younger man, "first of all, please remember that I'm also a 'college educated civilian.' I'm also the one waking up in a cold sweat almost every night. Second, Dr. Griner wasn't a civilian when he lost his sight. The G. I. Bill and disability is what paid for his diploma. He was blinded in Viet Nam."  
  
"Double 'oops,'" Curtis winced. "I'd forgotten why we were here. Obviously. And I should've checked into him myself. So. Where do we go from here?"  
  
Gary looked at his watch. It was still fairly early. Not much past eleven. "I need to go by the florist on Lower Wacker," he replied, "then we can take an early lunch and go see a movie. I haven't seen a good movie in ages."  
  
************ 


	4. With Friends Like These . . .

Gary and Sgt. Curtis were able to enjoy their lunch, but couldn't find a movie either man cared to see. Instead, they killed time in Lincoln park until the first rescue of the day. Gary took the first long walk he had been able to take in over a week, enjoying the early summer sunshine. In spite of still having to lean on the cane occasionally, it felt good to be able to stretch his legs.   
  
The young Marine, however, was unable to relax. He kept a watchful eye out for the kind of trouble his charge seemed unable to predict. Being out in the open the way they were made him increasingly nervous.  
  
"Tell me about yourself," Gary prodded, hoping to get the younger man to loosen up a little. "How did you get chosen for this? Other than the 'hand-to-hand, best marksman' stuff. Those couldn't be your only qualifications, could they?"  
  
"No . . . Gary," Curtis replied hesitantly. He was obviously uncomfortable using first names. "Dr. Fraiser insisted on someone with medical experience. I'm a gunnery sergeant, now, but I started out as a corpsman."  
  
Somehow, Gary wasn't really surprised at that news. It explained the all too accurate medical reports and the almost daily phone calls from the tiny doctor.   
  
"And the other stuff?" he asked as he steered their way toward a bench facing the lake.  
  
"One for fitness," Curtis shrugged. "The other because my dad was an avid gun collector. I learned to shoot before I was six. How 'bout you? Any hobbies?"  
  
"Astronomy," Gary replied, sinking down on the bench with a sigh. "When I get the chance, that is. Not much time for anything, lately."  
  
Curtis lowered himself next to his charge before commenting dryly, "This . . . 'thing' that you do. It keeps you that busy?"  
  
"You've only been around for a coupla slow days," Gary sighed. "Things can get . . . hectic, to say the least. I just hope things don't bust loose before I'm back up to speed."  
  
"And you cover the whole city alone?" the young Marine snorted in disbelief. "No back up?"  
  
"My family and my business partner are my 'back up,'" Gary murmured as he watched a young couple stroll by. They were holding hands, laughing at some private joke. A few yards away, an elderly couple were sitting on another bench, arms about each other's shoulders, and gazing out at the water. "They've been pinch-hitting for me while I've been laid-up," he added in a distracted monotone. "It's my responsibility, though. Not theirs."  
  
Glancing at his watch, Gary saw that it was time to get back to work. He looked around at the dozen or so strollers ambling through the park. This was the right area . . . and there was the guy tossing a Frisbee with his dog. Levering himself back to his feet with a heartfelt sigh, he tried to make it look natural as he strode over in their direction. He managed to stop pretty close to the right spot. When the plastic disc bounced off the lamppost and toward the street, Gary was able to snag it with his cane. Thus he prevented the dog from jumping out into the street and crashing through the windshield of the dark blue Lincoln, thereby saving the dog, the driver, and the three skaters that would have been crippled or killed in the resulting turmoil. As the owner of the dog ran up, Gary retrieved the toy from where it had fallen and scaled it back to him.  
  
"Thanks, mister," the young man yelled, as he went running back toward the lake.  
  
"You're welcome," Gary murmured.   
  
"That went petty smooth," Curtis commented. "You came out all this way to save a dog?"  
  
"Something like that," Gary shrugged. He watched the young man frolicking with his beloved pet for a moment, before turning to head back to the van, his expression unreadable. They had less than an hour to get to the Michigan Ave. bridge and stop a maintenance worker from falling to his death. "Some days I get lucky."  
  
*********  
  
As promised, it was well past midnight before the two men returned to the loft. Sgt. Curtis was aching from head to toe with exhaustion. He hated to even think how Hobson must be feeling! After saving the maintenance worker, they had rushed to deliver a baby on the El train, stopped six traffic accidents within a three block radius of the Sears Tower, performed CPR on a middle-aged man who had just won the Lottery, talked a man out of jumping from the roof of the Wrigley Building because he hadn't won the Lottery, knocked a teenager out of the path of a drive-by shooting, stopped two robberies and a carjacking that would have proven fatal for the victim.  
  
Gary had to pause twice while ascending the stairs to his loft. He was so tired, it was all he could do to force his left leg to cooperate. All he could think of was crawling into his bed and passing out. He was too tired to even care that they had missed supper. Again.  
  
As had quickly become routine, Curtis checked every room in the apartment before allowing Gary to enter. The moment the room was declared safe, Gary limped painfully up to his bed and eased himself down onto the mattress. He sat there for a moment, getting his breath, before falling back with a loud sigh. "I'm bushed," he mumbled, his voice confirming the brief statement. "I don't think I can move."  
  
"What you need," Curtis sighed from where he was leaning against the doorjamb, "is a hot bath. Loosen those sore muscles before they stiffen up on you."  
  
"Right," Gary agreed. "Sounds great." He just lay there, unmoving. "I have to get up for that, don't I?'  
  
"It's not as messy if you use a tub," Curtis replied with a tired nod. "Want me to run the water?"  
  
"Please," Gary murmured. "Le' me know when 's ready." His voice had begun to slur. A few seconds later, he was snoring softly.  
  
With a tired sigh, Curtis bent down and rolled the other man the rest of the way onto the bed. He then removed Gary's shoes and the sling, then jerry-rigged immobilization for the injured arm. When he had done all this, he pulled the comforter up to Gary's shoulders. Spent as he was, it was the best the young Marine could manage. He didn't even bother folding out his own bed, just wrapped himself in a blanket. He was sound asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.  
  
*************  
  
"Querr?"  
  
Gary awakened to the dry rasp of a rough tongue against the stubble on his cheek. "G'way," he mumbled drowsily.  
  
"Mrr?"  
  
"No' now," Gary protested. "Tired." He tried to push the persistent cat away with his right hand, only to find that he couldn't move it. The effort sent a twinge of pain through his wounded shoulder. He let loose with a muffled curse as he rolled onto his left side, then struggled to a sitting position on the side of the bed. The Paper, as had been the case since he'd come home, was under his left hand. Gary gave it a rueful glare before looking down to see what was confining his arm.   
  
Someone, Curtis, if he had to guess, had taken one of his bath towels and folded it in half lengthwise around his arm. It had then been wrapped around his chest and tied in place with the sash from his bathrobe. Puzzled as to the purpose behind this elaborate rig, Gary was still looking for the knot, to loosen it, when Curtis peeked over the back of the sofa.  
  
"Had to make sure you didn't move it in your sleep," he explained. "How ya feelin'?"  
  
"Okay, I guess," Gary murmured in reply. "Little stiff. You?"  
  
"Fine," the young Marine yawned as he gave a luxurious stretch. "I've had worse nights in the field." He rose smoothly to his feet and headed for the kitchenette. "Scrambled eggs okay with you?"  
  
"Cheese omelet, if we have cheese," Gary responded neutrally. He had a sneaky feeling that the young Marine was putting him on. That he was almost as stiff and sore as Gary, but determined not to show it. Looking down at the improvised immobilizer, Gary had to admit that Curtis had hung in there longer than he had.   
  
A quick scan of the headlines showed nothing until after ten. Tucking the Paper into the towel, and then grasping the cane he'd left leaning on his nightstand, Gary levered himself to his feet. What he needed was a hot soak to kick things into gear.   
  
"Here!" Curtis snapped, hastening to cut him off. "What're you doing? Let me . . . "  
  
"I'm just going to run a tub of hot water," Gary sighed. "Nothing strenuous. Just go on with what you were doing and let me take my bath."  
  
"And how were you gonna scrub your back without getting those stitches wet?"  
  
That stopped him. Gary gave out a low growl of frustration, chaffing at having to be 'looked after' like a child. "All right, all right!" he grumbled taking a seat at the counter. "You're as bad as my mom, you know that?"  
  
"If it's any consolation," Curtis chuckled, "you still beat me waking up this morning."  
  
"That's 'cause I've got this furry alarm clock," Gary grumbled good naturedly. He scooped a can of Fancy Feast out of the cabinet, popped it open one-handed, then set it down in front of the cat. The orange tabby 'querred' gratefully before digging in. "You're welcome," Gary nodded. He looked down at the cup of fresh coffee the Marine placed in front of him. It had already been doctored with the right amount of cream and sugar. "Thanks," he sighed in defeat.   
  
"Don't take it so hard," Curtis shrugged as he assembled the omelets. "You put in a hard day, yesterday. Most of what I did was just back up. Plus you're still hampered by that hole in your shoulder. From what Dr. Fraiser said, you weren't in all that good of a shape to begin with. Hell, I'm surprised you're able to move at all. A lot of guys would still be in that wheelchair. Or dead. Of course I feel better than you, right now. So, let me do my job. You've already done yours."  
  
"Not today, I haven't," Gary sighed. Today, in spite of getting what he considered a late start, promised to be almost as hectic as the previous day. What was it with pedestrians and cars? Or trucks and buses in this case. Two more traffic fatalities that morning and three more in the afternoon. Plus a domestic squabble that would trigger a gas explosion, killing a family of five, a drowning, and two kids playing street hockey would put a nun in a coma. Then he had time for a late lunch before dealing with the two girls who would be severely injured in a fall down an escalator while fleeing security at the department store where they would be caught shoplifting, the little boy who would stray from his mother during the confusion and disappear, then the predator that would also take another child an hour later. After a short respite while they drove back to Grant Park, they'd have just enough time to stop a rape/murder before a police sting operation turned fatal for all involved. Then, just before sunset . . . Gary pushed the Paper away with a weary sigh as Curtis placed the steaming omelet in front of him. It was accompanied by toast and hash brown potatoes. "Looks good," he murmured gratefully. Then, after taking a bite, "It is good. Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome," Curtis grinned. "Busy day ahead?"  
  
"Mmm," Gary nodded, his eyes staring, unfocused, somewhere in the middle distance. "Lots to do." Without bringing out the Paper, he briefly ran over the earliest events. "Don't plan on eating again before two," he added ruefully.  
  
"Whoa!" the young Marine commented with a low whistle. "You'll let me know when it gets 'hectic,' right? So, um, how long have you been doing this?" Curtis queried. "Doc says it's been a while."  
  
"Almost five years, now," Gary murmured distractedly. To the young Marine, it seemed as if he were in a trance. Gary was just trying to lay out the best plan of action in his mind. "Some days are okay. Not much happening. Others . . ." He just shrugged, turning his attention back to his plate. "A lot of it gets to be routine, after a while. Traffic fatalities, that's mostly a matter of timing. You know, remove one factor from the equation and it doesn't happen. Fires are a little trickier, sometimes. You have to know what starts 'em. Bombs," he added with a shudder. "I hate dealing with bombs. Of any type. The really nasty stuff is deliberate, usually. Robbery, rape . . . m-murder. Hostage situations can be . . . chancy. And suicide! I'm always afraid I'll say the wrong thing. Set somebody off instead of saving them. Scary."  
  
Curtis eyed his charge with growing horror during this quiet monologue. Hobson spoke in a raspy monotone, as if his mind still wasn't quite focused on the here and now. Yet, he described dealing with the stuff that nightmares were made of as if he dealt with it everyday. Thinking back over the last few days, Curtis realized that Gary was just reciting the facts. Which only made the soldier's skin crawl even more.  
  
"And you deal with this stuff everyday?" he asked, incredulous.  
  
"N-not everyday," Gary replied. "Each day is . . . different. Sometimes, I make one thing right, and another goes wrong as a result. You never know when that's gonna happen 'til it does. So I have to stay on my toes."  
  
The young Marine stabbed at his own meal as his mind digested what he had been told. No wonder the General was being so protective of this one civilian. It all, finally made sense.   
  
"You can see the future," he murmured in awe.  
  
With a wry chuckle, Gary shook his head. "The future isn't written in stone," he replied. "And I don't 'see' it the way you mean. I'm not psychic, or one of those people you see on TV. No tarot cards, tea leaves, or crystal balls. All I know is what could happen today . . . unless I change it. That's all. And I don't know everything. My limitations are . . . well . . . I-I do what I can."  
  
"Isn't that enough?"  
  
He thought back to a snow covered rooftop, as a fire raged down below, of a frightened old man too weak to hang on. Then of a young black man with a big heart and a huge piece of skylight piercing his abdomen, his life's blood pouring out onto the floor of a derelict building. Gary shook his head sadly. "Not always."  
  
*************  
  
"He's still in the tub," Curtis murmured into the phone. "Poor guy almost ran himself to death yesterday." Pause. "I dunno, ma'am. He seemed okay when he first came out, but after we'd been at the park awhile, he got sorta . . . quiet. Depressed, even. He doesn't seem much better this morning. Oh! I gotta tell you about that psychiatrist. Dr. Griner. I only spoke with him for a few minutes, but he strikes me as being good at his job. Dr. MacKenzie could take lessons from this guy. But that's not the most amazing part. This Dr. Griner is a dead ringer for what Hobson will look like in fifteen, twenty years. I'm telling you, if not for the gray in his hair, and the fact that he's blind . . . Yes, ma'am. As the proverbial . . . I don't think it slows him down much. He looked to be in pretty good shape to me. No, he lost his sight in 'Nam back in '69. Apparently, he and Hobson got to talking about it. Yes, ma'am. That's what I thought, too. Excuse me, ma'am, but I'd better go check on Hobson. He's soaked long enough. Have I what? No, ma'am. So far as I've seen, he just . . . sorta spaces out while reading the newspaper. Weird, but however he does it, he seems to know his stuff. He's only been off on a coupla little things, but never by much. Yes, ma'am. I'll see that he eats, and takes his medicine on time. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, Dr. Fraiser. I'll tell him you said so, but I doubt that it'll do much good. I don't want to push him too hard. Ma'am, he's already feeling like a caged animal. If I don't give him room to breathe, he might decide to try and ditch me. Yes, ma'am," he sighed. "I'll do my best. Good-bye."  
  
"Sounds like you've got your orders."  
  
Curtis almost dropped the phone as he spun around to face the man standing in the bathroom door. Gary was dressed only in his bathrobe, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel.  
  
"How can you move that quiet with . . . oh." He noticed that his patient wasn't leaning on the cane this morning. "You gonna try to get along with out it today?"  
  
Gary walked carefully over to the bed and sat down. "I'll keep it handy," he replied neutrally. He started getting dressed. "So you think I'm depressed?"  
  
"A little, yeah," Curtis admitted as he set the phone back on the table. "Mostly tired, I think. You take a lot on yourself, you know. By the end of the day, you're worn yourself down to a nub. Here, let me help with that. Two hands work faster than one."  
  
He quickly helped Gary fasten his jeans, then carefully eased the barkeep into his T-shirt and jacket. As Curtis was tightening the laces on Gary's Reeboks, he looked into the other man's despondent visage.  
  
"Cheer up," Curtis smiled. "At least you've still got all your parts. That puts you a step above a lot of vets I know."  
  
"True," Gary replied, his lips twitching in an attempt at a smile. "Most of those parts even work. Oh, I forgot to tell you. After we stop that super from getting electrocuted," he added, his voice brightening a little, "we'll have time for me to attend rehearsal. They still want me in the play! Crystal, Bonnie a-and the others . . . Someone came by the hospital almost everyday t-to help me go over my lines."  
  
The Marine looked up to see a shy smile on his patient's pale features. There was also a faint gleam in his eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago.  
  
"This means a lot to you, doesn't it?" he observed, straightening up with a groan.  
  
"Me? Nah. I'm doing this as a favor to Crumb," Gary replied dismissively. "A-and Crystal. She needs the exposure. Besides, it's . . . it's kinda . . . fun," he finished lamely. "I-it gives me something to think about b-besides an endless string of . . . of . . ."  
  
"Disasters?" Curtis suggested.  
  
"Exact . . . ly!" Gary agreed, moving both hands in an expressive gesture without thinking. He instantly put his left hand to his wounded shoulder as a very sharp reminder was delivered. "Remind me not to do that again," he hissed.  
  
"I wouldn't do that again, if I were you," Curtis dead-panned. "It might hurt."  
  
Gary opened his mouth to say something, closing it again as he realized he'd just been had.   
  
"Oh, that's cute," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Th-that's real cute. You learn that in 'basic'?"  
  
"Nah," Curtis grinned. "You left yourself wide open for that one." He helped Gary slip his arm into the sling. "There. That should remind you to be more careful." Glancing at his watch, he headed for the bathroom. "I better hurry or we'll miss the bus."  
  
As the Marine left the room, Gary pulled out the Paper, perusing the headlines in more detail.   
  
Runaway Bus Kills Twelve In School Yard.  
  
No. They definitely didn't want to miss that bus.  
  
**************  
  
"Are you sure you're up to this, Gary?" Bonnie asked as they stepped out on the stage. "You still look so pale! Is he getting enough rest?" she asked the man trailing two steps behind her friend.  
  
"I'm fine," Gary hurried to assure her. "We're just doing the scene where 'Angelique' and 'Troy' are arguing about the upcoming divorce. I'll be sitting . . . b-behind . . ." He slowed as they approached the set, coming to a halt a few feet from the desk. They had scrubbed and repainted the fake wall he had crashed into, but there was still a large area that was just a shade darker than the rest. A chill shiver ran up his spine as the scene played itself out in his mind, and his heart pounded as if it would burst from his chest. He didn't realize that he was holding his breath until the touch of a gentle hand broke him from his paralysis. "Huh?"  
  
"I asked if you were alright," Darlene repeated anxiously. "Gary, you're white as a sheet! Doesn't he look pale to you, Bonnie? Crystal? And he's sweating! Are you running a fever?"  
  
"I'm fine, really" Gary assured her, gently pushing aside the hand that was reaching for his forehead. There was a quaver in his voice, however, that belied his words. "It's just . . . the-the scene of the crime . . . ya know? It's to be expected, they tell me. Like I didn't already know," he added softly. "Um, l-let's see, I'm supposed to be seated a-at the desk when 'Angelique' comes storming in, waving the pre-nup at me."   
  
As he spoke, Gary strode boldly up to the set and took his seat. By busily arranging the blank sheets of paper scattered across the desk, he hoped to hide how badly his hand was trembling. It was ten times worse when Elaine walked onto the stage from the exact same spot where Crystal had emerged with the pistol in her hand. For a moment, he had to fight an almost overwhelming sense of panic as he once again saw that brief headline. Saw the gun aimed at his chest. He looked hurriedly down at the desktop.  
  
A deep breath, shoulders squared, and he raised his head defiantly to meet Elaine's concerned gaze.   
  
"Just what part of that agreement eludes you, Angelique?" he asked grimly.  
  
**********  
  
Three hours later, Curtis was helping an exhausted barkeep up the stairs to his loft. Gary had insisted on going through the scene until he could do it without stuttering. Or shaking. Once he was past that first hurdle, the rest of the rehearsal had gone smoothly. Soon, Bonnie assured them, they would be ready for a complete 'run through.' They just had to help Gary get up to speed.  
  
"I hope tomorrow is a slow day," Sgt. Curtis sighed as they reached the top landing. "I don't know if I can take another one like today."  
  
"We can only hope," Gary nodded. He reached for the door handle, stopping with his hand just inches from the knob. The door was open. "That's funny. I was sure I'd locked it when we left this morning."  
  
Instantly alert, Curtis drew his gun and motioned Gary back from the door. Easing the portal open with his foot, the Marine quietly chambered a round. As the door pivoted on well-oiled hinges, he crouched low, keeping close to the wall as he reached in and flipped on the overhead lights. There was a startled grunt as Curtis charged into the room. Simultaneously, two familiar voices shouted 'Freeze!'  
  
Gary winced as he recognized the other voice. Leaning heavily on his cane (it had been an exhausting day), he proceeded into the loft. "Sgt. Jason Curtis," he sighed. "Meet Police Lt. Steve Sloan, of the LAPD. Both of you can put your toys away. I've had enough gunplay for one lifetime, thank you." As the hardware was being returned to their respective holsters, he turned to the blonde detective. "I thought you and your dad went back to LA last Friday?"  
  
"We did," Steve shrugged. "Then I took a leave of absence and came back. You didn't think I could just walk off and leave until this case is solved, did you?"  
  
"I-I guess I didn't think about it one way or the other," Gary mused as he eased himself down on the couch. "Not from your standpoint, anyway. I-it's good to have you back. Where are you staying?"  
  
"Some dump called Casa Diablo," Steve grumbled.  
  
"Aw, man!" Gary groaned. "I know that place. You can't stay there! It gives 'flea-traps' a bad name!"  
  
"There's no other place left to stay," Steve shrugged. "There's another convention, seminar, whatever." He pointed with his chin to the young Marine. "What's with him?"  
  
"Oh, um, y-you may recall that I've had a run-in or two with certain . . . government agencies," Gary shrugged, wincing. "H-he's here to make sure this . . . incident wasn't because of . . . you know. National security or . . . a-anything like that."  
  
"Gary," Steve sighed, "for such a nice guy, you run in the strangest circles."  
  
"With 'run' being the operative word," Curtis replied with a tight-lipped grin. "This man should try for the next Olympic track team. Even with him leaning on a cane, I can barely keep up."  
  
Recalling a certain afternoon on the Navy Pier, Steve had to chuckle. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" He gave the young Marine an appraising glance. "You seem to be in good hands, though. Has he told you what he did just a few days before he was shot? Guy's barely able to walk and he takes a dive off the end of Navy Pier after some guy who . . ."  
  
"He was gonna drown!" Gary protested. "I was supposed to just sit back and let that happen?"  
  
"You were supposed to ask for help!" Steve told him pointedly. "We were right there!" He turned his attention back to Sgt. Curtis. "Has he pulled anything like that with you?"  
  
"All the time," Curtis nodded. "Have you any idea how hard it is to watch someone's back and front at the same time? Just yesterday I had chase him to the top of a scaffolding on the Michigan Ave. bridge where he grabbed some guy just as he was about to fall, then to the top of the Wrigley Building, and had to watch as he knocked some kid out of the way of a 'drive-by!' You wouldn't believe what today was like! And he says this was just a little above average. What if our saboteur decided to show up at any of those little shindigs? Who do I save him from? The assassin or himself?" he added with an expressive wave of his hands.  
  
"Now just a . . ."   
  
"Good question," Steve replied, ignoring Gary's protest. "That's something my dad was worrying about on the flight home. Gary has this remarkable talent for finding trouble."  
  
"Do you . . ."  
  
"Finding!" Curtis snorted. "He doesn't have to 'find' anything! He knows exactly where it's gonna be long before it happens."  
  
"Would you two like me to step outside so you can talk about me in private?" Gary asked dryly. "Or I could just go make us some coffee. Give you two a moment alone to compare notes." He started to lever himself to his feet as he finished speaking.  
  
Steve placed a hand on Gary's good shoulder, pinning him to his seat. "You just stay put," the blonde cop admonished. "I know where to find everything. Besides, shouldn't you be getting ready for bed? I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy for awhile."  
  
Gary turned to give Steve an irritated look. "Are you gonna turn into my mother, too?" he asked. "'Cause, if you are, I have to tell you that I don't need tucking in. I'm a big boy, now." Leaning back with a sigh, he rubbed his good hand over his face. Suddenly, the events of the day were catching up with him. "You're right," he murmured apologetically. "I-it's been . . . um., look, you can't stay in that dump. Why don't you go get your things and bunk in here with us? The two of you can share the sleeper tonight, and I'll have a cot brought out from storage in the morning."  
  
"I was sorta hoping you would say that," Steve grinned. "Marissa let me put my things in your office. I'd, um, I didn't want to put you out, but, when I saw that the cockroaches were 'packing heat,' . . ."  
  
****************  
  
"He what?"  
  
"I'm serious!" Steve chuckled before taking a sip of his coffee. "Beaned that kid with a long pass from our front yard. Hell of an arm."  
  
"That's nothing," Curtis snorted. "You should've seen him clambering up to that scaffold with only one hand! Or today, when we had to stop that bus! When the driver had that seizure, I thought we were all goners. But Gary hauls him outta that seat like he was a rag doll, one-handed. Then he wrestles the bus to a halt while I'm trying to keep the driver from hurting himself. You ever try to drive a bus? Those things . . ."  
  
His narration was interrupted as a pillow impacted with the side of his head. Both men looked over at the bed, where Gary was once again trying to burrow under the coverlet.  
  
"Knock it off, already," he grumbled. "It's after two, for cryin' out loud."  
  
"Sorry," Steve grinned. "I guess I'm still on west coast time." He bent down to retrieve the pillow and return it to the bed. "You're just such a-a wellspring of great stories. Too bad I can't tell 'em to the guys back at the home precinct."  
  
He stepped over to tuck the pillow under Gary's head once more. The younger man grunted his thanks.  
  
"So glad to keep you guys entertained," he murmured through the covers. "Now, can we all please just go to sleep?"  
  
Chuckling quietly, Curtis began to gather their half empty cups. "We better do as he asks," he commented. "He gets a little cranky if he doesn't enough rest."  
  
Groaning in frustration, Gary pulled the pillow over his head. "I'm only two days out of the hospital, guys," he mumbled. "Could you cut me some slack? I just . . . need . . . sleep. Please?"  
  
**********  
  
Bam! Bam! Bam!  
  
Rolling onto his back with a groan, Gary looked at the clock. Four-thirty. Who could be pounding on his door at this hour?   
  
Bam! Bam! Bam!  
  
"C'mon, Gar! Open up!"  
  
God, no!  
  
"Who the hell . . .?" Sgt. Curtis grumbled. He had sprung to his feet, his gun drawn and ready, with the first rattling impact. "Are you expecting company at this hour?"  
  
"You never expect Chuck," Gary sighed, his voice muffled by the covers he had pulled over his head. "He just appears. Like a bolt of lightning. You might as well let him in. The only way to get rid of him is to shoot him, and he is my best friend."  
  
Holding his pistol close to his ear, the muzzle pointed at the ceiling, Curtis stepped quickly up to the door. The rippled glass distorted the view somewhat, but he was able to see well enough to recognize Chuck Fishman from the file he had been given on Hobson's known associates. He gave vent to an explosive sigh before ejecting the round in the chamber. He tucked the pistol back into the holster draped over the back of the couch before returning to open the door.  
  
"What'd he do?" the sergeant grumbled. "Pick the lock downstairs?"  
  
"He doesn't have to," Gary murmured. "He probably used the spare key in the lamp post."  
  
Curtis paused halfway to the door. The look he directed toward the figure on the bed could only be described as 'dangerous.' "Just when was I supposed to be made aware of this little breech of security."  
  
"Jus' a spare key," Gary grumbled, trying to burrow deeper into the bed. "No one's ever found it that didn't know it was there."  
  
Shaking his head with a resigned sigh, Curtis reached to open the door. "We'll talk about this in the morning, Hobson."   
  
Chuck stood there, one fisted hand raised to pound on the door, two suitcases at his feet. He gave Curtis a startled look. "Do I know you?" he asked. Craning his head to peer at the bed, he added, "Gar, you have a party last night or something?" Without waiting for an answer, the little man reached down and hefted his bags. Striding briskly past the gaping sergeant, he dropped them noisily next to the treadmill. "Can you believe there's not one vacant room in this . . .?" He then noticed the other man levering himself up from the sleeper. "Steve?" Looking over to the bed, he asked, "Gar? What's going on here? You startin' a boardinghouse or somethin'?"  
  
"No," Gary sighed, rolling himself out of bed and sliding his feet into his slippers. "No, I'm not. What I am, is tired. You guys just stay right here, get to know each other, have a nice little chat, talk about me behind my back, whatever. Steve, you can make the introductions." Rubbing the back of his neck with an irritated sigh, he shuffled toward the door.  
  
"Wait a minute," Curtis snapped, stepping in front of him. "Where do you think you're going?"  
  
Gary didn't even pause as he stepped around the NCO. "I'm going downstairs, to my office where there's a nice, comfortable sofa, and some privacy. If . . . if, mind you, I'm real lucky, I might be able to get another hour of shut-eye."  
  
Curtis reached out to grab Gary by his good arm. "I don't think that's such a good idea," he said. "You need to just . . ."  
  
"I need to get just a little more sleep," Gary told him levelly. "I'm not gonna get it here. Now, please let me go."  
  
The two men locked gazes for a moment. With a sigh, Curtis looked away first. Hobson was right. The loft was turning into Union Station. "At least let me check it out, first," he told the bleary-eyed man before him. "It'll only take a minute. Wait here." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.  
  
Scrubbing at his face with his good hand, Gary perched on the edge of the bed. If only they had let him have just a little more sleep.   
  
"Gar?"  
  
He looked up to meet Chuck's concerned, and puzzled gaze.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked. "And what happened to your arm? I get back from New Zealand yesterday to find a message on my machine that you were in the hospital again. I tried to call but all the lines were . . ."  
  
"S'all right, Chuck," Gary murmured. "I'm fine, now. Steve and Jason can give you the whole story. I-I'm sorry to be such a grouch, but things have been . . . hectic. I'm just . . . tired, okay?" He could hear footsteps climbing the stairs. "You guys go ahead and talk, or . . . whatever. I'll be fine." He looked up as Curtis stepped through the door.   
  
"It's clear," the young Marine told him in a subdued tone. "I'll make sure you're not disturbed again."  
  
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Gary murmured. Grasping his cane, he levered himself to his feet, and pulled the lap-throw off the back of the sleeper. Draping the small blanket over his left shoulder, he shuffled toward the door. "If the front door is locked, I'll be fine. Marissa usually isn't in 'til seven, seven-thirty. Y-you guys just . . . just stay here and . . . I'll be fine." He pushed his way past his bodyguard and continued down the stairs.  
  
"He looks like that Linus kid, with his 'security' blanket," Chuck mumbled as his best friend disappeared from sight.  
  
"I heard that!" Gary called without looking back.  
  
"What! Yer gonna sick Snoopy on me?" the little man retorted loudly. Behind him, he heard what sounded like a choked laugh.  
  
"Good night, Chuck!"  
  
Curtis leaned against the doorframe, biting his lip, until he heard the door at the foot of the stairs close with a thump. Lightning quick, he spun and slapped the wall with the flat of his hand, letting loose with a loud expletive as he did so.  
  
"I have royally screwed up," he growled. "Man, I can't believe how badly I screwed up. I'm supposed to be looking after him, not just watch over him. And what do I do? First time someone comes along I can 'talk shop' with, I treat it like a damned 'sleep over!'"  
  
"It's as much my fault as yours," Steve muttered consolingly. "I could see how tired he was last night, as well as you could. We were just too keyed up to pay attention to it."  
  
Chuck's plaintive whine cut through their self-recriminations. "Will someone please tell me what you two are talkin' about?"   
  
Both men looked at each other, then shook their heads before turning to face the newcomer.  
  
"Gary's exhausted, physically and mentally," Steve told the young producer. "He's also feeling the pressure of being watched continuously. Not to mention knowing that someone deliberately tried to kill him. It's . . ."  
  
"Whoa! Hold up there, Kemo Sabe," Chuck cried, holding both hands up in a warding gesture. "Let's backup just a little. Someone tried to kill Gary?" Stunned, he turned to the young Marine. "And where, exactly, do you come into the picture?"  
  
Pushing himself to his feet with a sigh, Steve took Chuck by the arm, guiding the younger man to the kitchenette. "Let's belly up to the bar here," he said, "and we'll tell you all about it over coffee. I have to warn you, though. You're not gonna like it." As he led the way, Steve shot the smaller man an amused look. "Snoopy?"  
  
*************  
  
"Mrrr?"  
  
"Not now," Gary murmured drowsily. He was stretched out, on his left side, on the sofa in his office. "I've had a lousy night," he grumbled into his throw pillow. Squirming around onto his back, he opened one eye . . . to see a bright shaft of sunlight streaming though his window. He frowned thoughtfully as he noted the angle of the beam. It seemed awfully high for 6:30, even for this time of the year. Turning his head, Gary eyed the tabby sitting on the Paper. "You let me 'sleep in?'" he murmured, surprised. "Thanks."  
  
He carefully levered himself to a sitting position before looking at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight! Wow! He must have been tired! He hadn't slept past seven in years!   
  
"Is something up?" he asked the cat. "Y-you didn't let anything slide just . . . just feeling sorry for me, did you? 'Cause I don't need sympathy. I just needed those guys to shut up so I could sleep."  
  
The cat didn't say anything, just tucked his feet beneath himself and gazed back with a smug purr. Gary cocked his head to one side, trying to read the banner headline. It seemed to be about a new budget proposal. Didn't the local politicians have anything better to do with their time? Reaching down gingerly, he nudged the still purring feline off of the Paper and picked it up. Leafing through, he scanned each headline carefully. Except for a certain councilman getting caught taking bribes, and a half-price sale at the Reebok outlet store, there was nothing of interest. Stunned, Gary turned to the front page and started again, reading each article carefully. So engrossed was he in his task, that the cat was in his lap before he was even aware that it had moved. The orange feline butted his chin repeatedly to get his attention. At the same time, there was a gentle tapping on the glass panel of the office door.  
  
"Do you think he's awake, yet?" someone murmured on the other side. It sounded like Steve.  
  
"I dunno," Curtis whispered in reply. "I don't see that cat anywhere. What do ya think got into that beast? Wouldn't even let me down the freakin' stairs!"  
  
Silence, then . . .   
  
"What 're lookin' at me for?" Chuck demanded in an indignant whisper. "Like I know what that orange monster is thinkin'? It hates me! It always has. The only reason it ever tolerated me is because of Gary."  
  
More silence.  
  
"Do you have any idea how weird that sounded?" Steve asked.  
  
Gary looked down at the orange tabby lying curled in his lap. Setting the Paper aside, he began scratching behind its ears. "What'd you do, fella?" he murmured his lips curving into an amused smile. "Put the fear of God into those bozos? Read 'em the riot act, or something? Hmm?"  
  
The cat just closed his eyes and purred louder. The voices on the other side of the door continued.  
  
"We can't just stand here all day," Chuck insisted, his voice still pitched barely above a whisper. "He's gotta be awake. That cat never lets him sleep this late."  
  
"So why are we still whispering?" Curtis asked.  
  
Chuckling, Gary nudged the cat out of his lap and stood up, sticking his feet back into his slippers. Through the rippled glass upper panel, he could see three shadows pressing against the door, trying to see or hear better. Easing up until he could just reach the knob, Gary snatched the portal open, spilling all three onto the floor at his feet. He managed a dry chuckle as he watched them try to untangle themselves.  
  
"It's okay," he told them. "All's forgiven. And I seem to have the day off," he added, rubbing his hands together briskly. "So, um, what would you guys like to do today?"  
  
*************  
  
After a hot breakfast, Gary spent a little time going over the books with Marissa. His partner was still 'walking on air' after Emmett's proposal. They had been forced to postpone the date twice, however, due to the logistics of getting both families together. At first, each had been certain the other was having 'cold feet.' Gary somehow managed to keep them talking, though, and things were starting to gel.   
  
"We think we can get married on Valentine's Day," she told him that morning, "but we haven't heard from his uncle in Milwaukee, yet. Or my sister."  
  
"You sound discouraged," Gary commented distractedly as he checked his figures one more time. "Not feeling a little . . . chilly, are we?"  
  
"Just a little," Marissa sighed. "Emmett's starting to feel it, too, I think. He's starting to talk about eloping. I'm almost ready to agree. It's not like we'll have that many guests, but who could've known that getting forty people together would be this hard?"  
  
"It'll happen," Gary chuckled. "It'll seem like forever, at first. Then, as the big day gets closer and closer, it'll seem like there's not enough time left. When it's all over, you'll forget all about the scheduling, and the costs, and the time spent worrying about all the nitpicky little details. The only thing the two of you'll be worrying about is how long you can make the moment last."  
  
Marissa sat back with a wistful smile. "Mmm," she sighed. "You make it sound so . . . romantic."  
  
"It can be," Gary murmured, his mind drifting back as he set the ledger aside. "It can be. Well! That's one less headache to deal with later. We're all going to the racetrack. Care to go with us?"  
  
A worried frown creased the blind woman's brow as she considered his offer. "Should you be going someplace so . . . public?" she asked. "That . . . person . . . is still out there."  
  
"Marissa," Gary sighed, "I've been out in the open a number of times in the last few days. No one has taken any more shots at me, or even sent me a threatening note. Whoever doctored those rounds has been scared off. And I'm not gonna cower in my loft for the rest of my life on the off chance he's still 'out there.' I can't function that way."  
  
"Aren't you frightened by this at all?" Marissa asked, her tone saying clearly that she was scared enough for both of them.  
  
"Of course I'm scared," her partner snorted. "I'm not an idiot. But I can't let some half-baked terrorist dictate how I run my life. If I do that, he wins by default. With no guarantee that he won't . . . won't wait until everyone figures he's took off for parts unknown and we let our guard down. Then h-he pulls a S-Savalas on me and . . ." He paused, heaving a shuddering sigh as he got a grip on himself. "No. I can't live with that hanging over me. If my staying out in the open helps to flush him out, good. And we need something like this. Just a bunch of friends kicking back, laying a few bets . . ." His voice faded as he thought back to happier times.  
  
"You're not going to give Chuck any winners, are you?" she asked guardedly.  
  
"He doesn't need any," he replied, his mind still . . . elsewhere. "He's got everything he needs."  
  
***************  
  
Out of habit, as much as anything, Gary stuck the Paper inside his back pocket as the four men headed for the EL station. They had decided to leave the van behind, to avoid parking hassles. Plus, Gary felt the need to stretch his legs. The last couple of days, he had been too rushed to walk just for the exercise. It felt nice to be able to take his time. He was a little self-conscious, at first. People would stare at his cane or the sling, then look hurriedly away as he met their curious gazes. No one, however, made any threatening moves toward him. That could have been because of the way Sgt. Curtis hovered protectively within arm's reach. Or the stony glare Steve turned on anyone who got too close.  
  
"Could you guys tone it down a little," Gary growled irritably. "You'll have people thinkin' I'm 'connected' or something!"  
  
"Better 'connected' than 'disconnected,' if you get my drift," Chuck countered. "So, Gar," he went on, rubbing his hands together briskly, "who do you favor in the first race?"  
  
Gary shot his friend a warning glance. "No," he replied with a quick shake of his head. "No way, Chuck. We don't play that game, remember?"  
  
"What game?" the little man queried in wide-eyed innocence. "I'm not playing any games." He turned his innocuous gaze on Steve, then Curtis. "Did I ask him to look into his crystal ball and pick us a winner or two? Did I even suggest that he . . .?"  
  
"Knock it off, Fishman," Steve told him. "We all know what you meant. Let's just do things the normal way today. Let the man enjoy his time off."  
  
"Thank you," Gary nodded in grateful acknowledgment.   
  
"Of course," the blonde cop added, "you won't mind if we all let you bet first."  
  
"Forget it," Chuck sighed. "I tried that once. He just bets on the favorites to win. No long shots. How a guy can know what's gonna happen everyday and not wanna make a killin' off of it . . . I still say it's unnatural."  
  
"Of course it's 'unnatural,'" Gary grumbled quietly. "Knowing the future at all is unnatural. I just don't think this . . . this 'gift,' if you wanna call it that, is some gimmick for getting rich. And could you keep it down? I don't want everyone hearing this. I'm supposed to be relaxing."  
  
Taking the not so subtle hint, they quickly changed the subject to baseball. Gary still held out hope for the Cubs, while Chuck and Steve were Dodgers fans.   
  
A while later, on their way back from the betting window for the third time, Gary felt something snag his ankle as he was limping down the stairs. He stumbled into Steve, who was a step ahead of him, almost knocking both of them off balance. A quick move by Curtis saved both men from a nasty fall.  
  
"You okay, Gary?" the young Marine asked in open concern. He still had a firm grip on the injured man's left arm.   
  
"Y-yeah," Gary assured him shakily. "I must've tripped on . . . on something." Looking down at the place where he had stumbled, Gary could see nothing that could have caused his misstep. "Funny," he murmured. "It was almost like something . . . "  
  
"Something what?" Steve insisted as Gary's voice trailed off. "Did you trip or not?"  
  
"N-not, I think," Gary mused. He stepped back to where he had felt the obstruction, looking carefully at the faces on both sides of the broad stairway. Nobody looked familiar, but there were a couple of empty seats on the aisle that he could've sworn had been occupied a moment before. "I think someone . . . N-never mind," he sighed. "It's almost time for the race. Let's get back to our seats before Chuck has kittens."  
  
"Are you sure you're okay?" Steve asked. "You look a little . . ."  
  
"I just tripped on someone's ankle or something," Gary insisted. "I'm fine, honest."  
  
He wasn't so sure a short time later, as they were cheering home the horse they had all wagered on. Gary had relented just enough to pick a three-year-old at four to one odds. As the horses entered the home stretch, their runner coming up fast on the outside, Gary felt a sudden chill. Like ice water rolling down his spine. At almost the same moment, a searing shaft of pain hit him right between the eyes. Rocked by the suddenness of the attack, he staggered back a step, taking Chuck with him. Instantly alert, Curtis grabbed him by his good arm to steady him.  
  
"Are you okay? Whoa!"  
  
No sooner had they moved, than something plummeted past Gary's field of vision, having fallen, apparently, from the balcony above. It hit the space he had just vacated with a resounding crash, causing several nearby spectators to scream out in panic. Stunned, Gary was almost trampled by people trying to flee the scene. He had only a brief glimpse of the object before Steve and Sgt. Curtis dragged him and Chuck to safety. A bowling ball? 'Who,' he wondered, 'brings a bowling ball to a racetrack?'  
  
He didn't like the answer he came up with at all.  
  
***********  
  
Armstrong found three of the four men seated in the infirmary, where they had taken Gary at the first sign of trouble. Hobson was stretched out on a cot, a damp cloth covering his eyes. He appeared to be sleeping.  
  
"He said he felt dizzy," Chuck told the big detective, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "He lost his balance just . . . just before . . ." The little man shuddered at the memory of the incredibly near miss. "If he hadn't, we'd both be dead, now." He looked up at the others. "Did you know it cracked the concrete where it hit? I saw it. Just . . . shattered it. People thought it was a bomb."  
  
Paul knelt next to the figure on the cot. "Did they sedate him?"  
  
"No," Gary murmured. "They should've sedated Chuck, though. He's a wreck." Reaching up with his free hand, Gary removed the compress. "I'm fine, except for this God-awful headache."  
  
"Cheer up," Steve commented dryly. "Think of the one you almost had. That would've been a real skull buster." He looked over at Armstrong. "He almost took a header down some stairs a few minutes before the ball dropped. Gary thought he'd just tripped on something, but I'm not so sure, now."  
  
Armstrong reached out, grasping Hobson by the chin and gently turning his head to one side. Three 'steri-strips' pulled together the edges of a shallow cut on his left temple. "I take it this isn't the source of your headache?"  
  
"That happened later," Curtis sighed. "We got separated in the stampede. When I found him, he was half under one of the bench seats, trying to keep from being stepped on. Again."  
  
"It's no big deal," Gary mumbled irritably. He pushed the detective's hand away and turned his head back, placing the cloth over his eyes once more. "Trip to the ER, a few stitches and something for the headache, I'll be fine."  
  
"You should know," Paul sighed. "That ball weighed sixteen pounds, by the way. At the very least, you could've been severely injured. If it'd hit you square on, it would've crushed your skull like an eggshell. This guy is not playing around, Hobson. You should be in protective custody."  
  
"We've already been over that," Gary sighed. "That only protects me. What happens when this jerk goes after my family? Or my friends? How many people should I let be hurt or killed to protect me?"  
  
Frustrated, Armstrong lunged to his feet and began pacing the tiny room. "I just don't get you, Hobson," he snapped. "Anyone else in your position would be screaming for protection. You act as if it's a violation of your right to be worm food!"  
  
"I don't see the need to put anyone else at risk," Gary countered. Wincing, he rubbed at his temples with one hand. "Could you hold the volume down a little? Please?"  
  
"At the very least," Steve told him, "you're going to the ER to have that cut stitched. While we're there, maybe they should look into the cause of that headache, too."  
  
"It's just a headache," Gary sighed. "No big deal."  
  
*************  
  
"You have a concussion, Mr. Hobson," Dr. Kovac reported as he leafed through Gary's chart. "CT scan shows no intracranial bleeding, but there is a slight swelling."  
  
"Does that mean I can go home, now?" Gary mumbled. He was lying back on the stretcher with his eyes covered once more.  
  
"Normally," the dark haired Croatian replied, "I would say yes, if there were someone to awaken you every few hours for neuro checks. Given your recent history, however, I would like to admit you for observation."  
  
Gary raised one corner of the cloth to give the doctor a steady look. "I've got a Marine with Medcorps experience and a police lieutenant staying with me. Plus a friend just in from the west coast. Not to mention that my mom lives across the street from me. What make you think I'm gonna get any sleep?"  
  
"Um," the physician nodded, failing to suppress a tiny smile. "Still, it would be best for all concerned if you let us take care of you tonight. I am troubled by the fact that this headache hit you before you struck your head. And you said you felt a chill?"  
  
Letting the cloth fall back into place, Gary nodded once. "Like ice water running up my spine," he replied. "Right after that . . . the pain . . . It was kinda . . ." He heaved a sigh as he searched for words to describe the experience. "It felt like something just smacked me between the eyes. But there was nothing there."  
  
"All the more reason for us to keep you." Dr. Kovac told him. "Want me to tell your friends?"  
  
"No," the young barkeep grumbled. "I want you to let me go home. No offense, Doc, but I've practically lived in this joint over the past year. I'm just starting to get comfortable being in my own place again."  
  
"It's only for one night, Mr. Hobson," the physician chuckled. "You won't have time to get homesick, I promise. Now, let me get you admitted, and schedule a few tests. We'll try to have you back home by this time tomorrow, hmm?"  
  
**********  
  
Gary couldn't figure all the furtive looks he kept getting as the orderly wheeled him up to the same floor where he had awakened just a little over a week before. Some of the nurses turned away a little too quickly, their shoulders shaking. Were they laughing at him?  
  
"Here you go, Mr. Hobson," the orderly said as they rolled up to the door. "Your usual room. It even has your name on it."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Gary sighed. "That's a good one, Joey. What'd they do slap a piece of tape on the door with . . . my . . . Oh, that's cute. That's real cute! Who . . .? Who came up with this?"  
  
He was looking up at a gleaming bronze plaque hanging on the door, proudly proclaiming that this room now had a name.  
  
The Hobson Suite.  
  
***********  
  
"I'm almost tempted to sue," Gary grumbled to his guests. Then his lips twitched as the humor of the situation won out. "That plaque must've set someone back a bundle. Those things aren't cheap."  
  
"So, how's the head?" Chuck asked as he settled onto a chair. "Any better?"  
  
"Some," Gary admitted, sinking back into his pillow. "They gave me a little something for the pain, and to keep me from getting sick." He looked up to the big detective standing by the window, gazing out at the parking lot. "Do we know any more than we did an hour ago?"  
  
"Not much," Armstrong grudgingly admitted. "The ball was wiped clean, no one remembers seeing who dropped it. It's a common brand found at any sporting goods store. Even the finger holes had been cleaned. This guy is no fool."  
  
"That much we'd already figured," Sgt. Curtis murmured distractedly. "He had to be wearing gloves. No one noticed a guy wearing gloves in the middle of May, carrying a bowling ball at a racetrack? Do people have to practice to be that blind?"  
  
"It's a common phenomenon," Steve remarked dryly. "They don't want to get involved, so we find ourselves with a mass outbreak of selective amnesia. Happens a lot back home, too."  
  
"So," Gary sighed, "what happens now?"  
  
"You get some rest," Armstrong told him sternly. "I've already explained that Sgt. Curtis will be staying the night with you and that no one else is to be allowed anywhere near you without my say so. Tomorrow . . ."  
  
"W-wait!" Gary pleaded, holding his good hand up to silence the detective. "I've got an appointment with Dr. Griner in the morning."  
  
"Who's Dr. Griner? Is he on staff here?"  
  
"He's this psychiatrist Hobson just started seeing," Curtis explained. "We can call him and reschedule."  
  
"I-I'd rather not," Gary murmured. "M-maybe he could be brought here?"  
  
Armstrong shot Gary an amused glance. "Finally getting your head examined, Hobson?"  
  
"In more ways than one," Gary sighed. "I'm still having some . . . issues . . . with wh-what . . . with last Halloween. Things happened so fast right after that, I didn't have time to . . . to deal with it then." He rubbed at his temples as the pain returned. "Since this last . . . I-I couldn't put it off any longer."  
  
The big cop nodded soberly, regretting his flippant remark. He was not surprised that Hobson was having problems. What Savalas had done to him would've given the most hardened veteran nightmares. "I'll see if this Dr. Griner will consider coming here for your session," he offered.  
  
"You'll have to send a car for him," Curtis told him. "He's blind." He glanced at the man on the bed, biting his lip with indecision. Finally, he added, "He's also a ringer for Hobson. A little older, but the resemblance is amazing."  
  
"Great," Steve muttered. "Just what we need. Two of them."  
  
************  
  
Gary had to endure a series of lab tests, and an MRI before finally being allowed to rest that evening. And it wasn't until Curtis and Steve had stepped out to talk privately with Armstrong that he and Chuck were able to talk candidly.  
  
"So, why didn't you know about this, Gar?" the little man asked pointedly. "Did you tick off the Paper Fairy or somethin'? This is twice, no three times it didn't warn you ahead of time. First that spill down the stairs, then Savalas, now . . . And what about that shooting? Did you even get a hint . . .?"  
  
"Yes," Gary sighed tiredly. "I just didn't see it in time. Look, those others . . . If they hadn't 've happened the way they did . . . then I wouldn't 've been in the right places in time to stop a lot of people from dying. There's . . . there's a reason behind this, too. I just . . . just don't know what it is, yet. B-but I will. Eventually."  
  
"Yeah?" Chuck snorted. "Well, any more 'wake up calls' like this, and you won't be in any shape to handle it when you do."  
  
"S-so, um, how are Jade a-and the babies?" Gary asked hesitantly. The way Chuck smiled and his eyes brightened, Gary knew that he had successfully changed the subject. The little guy was still expounding on the twins' latest exploits when Steve and the sergeant finally returned. In fact, once started, it was all they could do to shut him up! It wasn't until the nurse came in with a syringe that Chuck decided it was time to go. Promising to return early the next morning, he practically ran from the room.  
  
Smiling, the nurse inserted the syringe into the IV port. "It's just an antibiotic," she chuckled. "What's his problem?"  
  
"Body fluids," Gary told her, grinning at his retreating friend's reaction. "If there's even the possibility of blood, he gets weak in the knees." He let his head sink back into the pillow with a sigh. "I don't suppose you have anything for this headache?"  
  
"I'll see if the doctor wrote any orders," she promised. Noting the faint lines of pain around his eyes, she asked, "Bad?"  
  
"Mmm." He nodded slightly, wincing at the movement. "Doesn't have to knock me out," Gary added. "Just a little something to take the edge off?"  
  
"Let me check your chart," she told him. "If there are no orders, I'll page your doctor."  
  
"Thank you," Gary murmured as she turned to go. He turned his head slightly to see Steve and Jason holding a whispered conference by the window. "Anything I need to know about?"  
  
The two men exchanged troubled looks before approaching the bed.  
  
"Who knew we were going to the track today?" Steve asked without preamble. "Did you tell anyone?"  
  
"Just Marissa," Gary replied, puzzled by the question. "I told her in the office a few minutes before we left. And my parents, so they wouldn't worry. Why? W-wait! You don't think . . . She's one of my best friends! And my partner! I'd trust her with my life! I already trust her with more than my life! No way is she involved in this!" Grimacing, he bit his lip, pressing the heel of his left hand to his forehead as a sudden shaft of pain blurred his vision. "She's not morally, ethically, or emotionally capable of anything remotely like this," he hissed through gritted teeth.  
  
"You'll notice he never once brought up the fact that she's blind?" Steve commented dryly.   
  
"Well, maybe that's because I have a little more insight into handicaps than you do," Gary snapped, moving his hand to shoot the detective a baleful glare. "I-I know that a-a cane o-or a wheelchair has nothing to do with a person's ethics. Or their capabilities. I also know about the possibility of an accomplice. Except that it's not a possibility with Marissa! What would she gain? The bar? She's already half owner . . . by my suggestion. And trust me, it's not that big of a prize. We do okay, mind you, but not well enough to kill for it."  
  
"So, how did this person know where to find you?" Curtis asked. "I don't want to believe it, either. I don't know her as well as you do, but she strikes me as . . . well, I have to agree with Sloan on this. Someone had to let this guy know where you were?"  
  
"He couldn't 've just followed us?" Gary snorted derisively. "Maybe he spotted us on the El, and decided to try his luck. I don't know about you, but a bowling ball at the racetrack doesn't strike me as premeditated. More of a-a crime of opportunity."  
  
"You've got us there," Steve admitted ruefully. "This guy is good, then. Curtis and I were both looking for tails, and we never spotted anyone suspicious." He sank down into a chair with a sigh. "Sorry. We didn't want to upset you, but it's an avenue that had to be explored."  
  
"Well, try another road," Gary grumbled, looking away. He was still too angry to want to meet their chagrined gazes. "It can't be anyone close to me. N-not close close, i-if you know what I mean." He rubbed at his eyes with his good hand, wishing that nurse would hurry with the pain medicine. "Look, I know that I'm not exactly . . . universally loved. A-and I know that you have to look at things in a way I don't even want to imagine, but I just can't see this as being a-a conspiracy concocted by people I know!"  
  
"No one ever wants to consider something like that," Steve sighed. "The fact remains that most homicides are committed by someone the victim knows. It had to be someone who knew about the play, who knew you were the only one being 'shot,' and the rehearsal schedule. Oscar didn't even buy the ammo for the prop until the day before. He loaded the clips that morning and they were kept under lock and key until the rehearsal. The only other time they were out of his sight was a half-hour window when an old Army buddy dropped by. Plenty of time for someone who knew what they were doing to pop the real blanks out of the clip, slip in the live rounds, and duck back out. Armstrong said they finally found his old 'buddy.' The guy was paid to leave the theater door cracked whenever he was let in. He thought it was a prelude to a robbery."  
  
"Some friend. S-so, he knows . . .?" Gary stammered hopefully.  
  
"Next to nothing," Steve admitted reluctantly. "The guy was so high when they found him, he was lucky to know his name. Oscar has been trying to get him into rehab for years. All he could tell us was that the man who paid him had a foreign accent."  
  
Gary sank back again, his hopes of a speedy end to this mess dashed with those words. "Half of Chicago has a 'foreign' accent," he grumbled. "That only narrows it down to, what? A coupla million? If you leave out women and children, you can cut it down by two thirds or more."  
  
"Take it easy, Hobson," Curtis cautioned. "You knew this wasn't gonna happen overnight."  
  
"I know," Gary sighed. "I know. I-it's just . . . I wanted this to be over, to get back to . . . to something like a 'normal' life."  
  
Steve almost choked on that one. "Gary," he wheezed, "define 'normal.'"  
  
*************  
  
It was about nine the next morning when Gary became aware of hushed whispers just beyond his door. A moment later, there was a hesitant knock. Sgt. Curtis quickly rose from the recliner where he had been reading and cracked the door open just enough to peer out. Satisfied, he stepped back to allow Steve to escort Dr. Griner to a chair.  
  
"Good mornin', Gary," he greeted his patient in a soft drawl. "I'm sorry to hear about your little set back. You weren't seriously hurt, I hope."  
  
"Bump on the head," Gary shrugged. "If they'd wanted to hurt me, they should've aimed for something a little softer."  
  
The psychiatrist chuckled at the dry comment. "I wonder if you meant that the way it sounded," he said. Turning his sightless eyes toward Steve, he motioned one hand to the table at his side. "If you could set my things up here, and give us a little privacy," he said, "it would be appreciated."  
  
"No problem," the blonde detective replied. He quickly set the CD recorder on the table and plugged it in. "You guys have a nice chat," he said as he reached for the door. "And if you talk about me, be kind."  
  
As soon as they were alone, Dr. Griner turned on his recording device. "Seriously, Gary," he began, all humor gone from his voice, "how are you feeling? And don't tell me 'fine.' I know better. If that near miss didn't put the fear of God into you, you're beyond my help."  
  
"They told you, huh?" Gary sighed. "Hell, yes, it scared me. If they hadn't been waking me up all night, I still wouldn't 've gotten any sleep."  
  
"Dreams?"  
  
"Every time I closed my eyes," he admitted. "And not your nice, peaceful Disney type dreams, either. Full, Technicolor, Stephen King meets Clive Barker horrors. In Dolby surround sound, and directed by John Carpenter."  
  
"Ouch," William winced in sympathy. "As bad as the Savalas dreams?"  
  
"Oh, I don't have to separate them," Gary sighed. He rubbed tiredly at his face with his good hand. "I like to economize, so I run everything together in a nice, neat little package. Marley, Savalas, th-the accident, it all starts to spill over on each other until I'm bouncing from one scene to the next and I can't sort out the details. I-I'm losing sight of . . . of me and I don't . . . don't know where to look . . ."   
  
"Back up a minute, son," Dr. Griner pleaded. "You said you were losing sight of yourself. In what way? Are you . . . watching yourself in these dreams, or is it in the sense of . . . losing track of your identity?"  
  
Gary took such a long time answering, Dr. Griner wondered if he had drifted off to sleep. It had been a long night for the younger man.  
  
"Sorta . . . both, I think," Gary finally replied. "Lately, these dreams have a kinda . . . overtone. Like I'm in two places at once. I'm inside my own body, confused, scared, running or fighting for my life. And I'm . . . someone else. Someone who's . . . watching? Observing, maybe? It's like I'm sizing myself up, judging my performance. J-judging my. . . myself."  
  
Dr. Griner waited patiently for Gary to mull over what he had just said. To take the next step. He was pleased, in a way. It usually took a few more sessions for most of his patients to get this far. Most preferred to see judgment as coming from outside themselves, when, in truth, no one could ever judge them as harshly as they judged themselves. This was something he had found to be true, not just in PTSD patients, but also in cases of abuse. The victim was made to feel that they deserved whatever punishment that was meted out. In the case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the punishment was usually administered from within. Often taking the form of alcohol or drug abuse. It was a downward spiral that had almost destroyed more than one of his comrades from Team Viking.   
  
"You think . . . you think I'm punishing myself," Gary murmured softly. "That I'm calling up all these . . . demons because I'm blaming myself for their . . . their dying. Then, why don't I see Judge Romick? Or Jeremiah Mason and Earl Candy? I mean . . . wouldn't I have more reason to feel guilty over them than cold blooded killers like Marley and Savalas?"  
  
"Those were people you were powerless to save," William gently reminded him. "You grieved over that fact, even blamed yourself for a while. Then something made you realize that you had at least tried. That, if you hadn't been there, they would still be dead. Marley and Savalas . . . you had an active hand in their demise. With Marley, you more or less led the police to him, but you didn't pull the trigger. If he had chosen to obey Lt. Crumb, and had dropped the gun, he would have been taken alive. It was his choice not to do so, not yours. You and Savalas were struggling over possession of the gun he brought into your home, with the expressed intent of killing you. He did, in fact, get off one shot into you before he was killed. It was the blood from your injuries that made the gun so slippery. That made your hand lose its grip at just the moment that he pulled the trigger. You did everything you could to talk Marley out of his course of action. You tried to take Savalas alive. In both cases, you failed. That is the crime you're punishin' yourself for. Failing. Failing because you believe that, in your heart, you didn't want to succeed."  
  
Silence. Griner could hear the faint rasp as Gary rubbed his hand over something. His face, maybe? Or his blanket. As was often the case, he found himself curious to know what his patient looked like. Margaret, his receptionist, had remarked that he and his new patient bore a strong resemblance, but she'd said it such an off-hand manner, that he had thought nothing of it, then.  
  
"I-I guess I never looked at it that way," Gary finally murmured. "I've been beating myself up, trying to think of something I could've done, or said, differently." He gave a little snort of laughter. "Funny. I've always tried not to judge other people. To avoid the trap of saying 'this person is worth saving and this one isn't.' Then I go and hang myself without even a trial."  
  
"Let's be thankful it never actually came to that," Griner commented dryly. "Therapy is pretty much useless on the deceased."  
  
There was another moment of silence, longer this time. Did he hear Gary shudder? Had it actually been that close?  
  
"You're scary, Doc," Gary finally responded in a shaky voice. "To tell you the truth, if not for my family and friends staying on top of me, there was a time it could've come to that. In fact, the only thing keeping me alive was the same injuries that had pushed me over the edge. By the time I could do anything, I'd decided not to. Mainly because I didn't want to die with the name 'king of the pity pot' ringing in my ears."  
  
"Oh Lord!" Griner laughed. "That had to come from my neck o' the woods!"  
  
"A tech down in x-ray," Gary chuckled. "She's okay, most of the time, but her temper is awesome." He fell silent again. Then, "Do you mind if . . . if I ask something . . . personal?"  
  
"Depends on how 'personal' we're talkin' about," Griner replied cautiously. "What did you want to know?"  
  
"H-has anyone told you that . . . that you and I look an awful lot alike?" Gary asked hesitantly. "It kinda makes me wonder if we're not related, somehow."  
  
That tweaked William's curiosity even more. Now he had to know what his patient looked like. Moving carefully, he leaned toward the sound of Gary's voice. "Do you mind?" he asked, holding both hands before him.  
  
Gary guided Dr. Griner's hands to his face. Holding perfectly still, as he had once done for Marissa, he let the blind man explore the shapes and planes of his features. His questing fingers brushed gently over the surface of his skin, barely touching him. They sampled the texture of his hair, the shape of his brows, even traced the outline of his ears. It was an oddly . . . personal experience. Gary wouldn't have felt comfortable letting just anyone do this. He had even been a little self-conscious with Marissa that one time, and they had been friends for a while. This . . . this was like . . . like his father, or a brother he'd never known before. Personal, yet . . . right.  
  
Satisfied, Griner sat back with an explosive 'whoosh!' "You're right," he said. "The resemblance is amazin'! I don't know how to explain it other than a common ancestor. Perhaps we could get together sometime and compare family trees."  
  
"I'd like that," Gary replied, his voice sounding much more . . . relaxed than when Griner had first arrived. "But, before we get into that, I've got . . . this is crazy. You'll probably tell me it was an auditory hallucination or something. Brought on by shock."  
  
"Let me be the judge of that," Griner chuckled. "What happened?"  
  
"Well, just as that bowling ball hit the floor," Gary told him, "I could've sworn I heard this God-awful screech. Like a woman howling in frustration. But nobody else heard it. Weird."  
  
***************  
  
They finally released Gary that afternoon, to his immense relief. It couldn't have come a moment too soon, as his only save of the day was to stop a cement truck from crashing into the ER waiting room, killing not only the driver, but six patients waiting to be seen. He hated that he had to stand back and let Steve and Sgt. Curtis do most of the work, but they managed without too much trouble.  
  
"Anymore surprises we should watch out for?" Steve asked as he knocked cement dust off of his sleeve. He had been the one to leap onto the running board and grab the wheel, steering the truck into a pile of laundry bags. Thank God for another Housekeeping strike!  
  
"That's it for today," Gary replied, not entirely able to suppress a tiny smile. He looked over to where the doctors were working over the driver. The middle-aged man had blacked out because of a heart problem and would end up with a pacemaker, but he would live to drive again. Gary glanced at his watch as he made his way to the van. "We've got the rest of the day to ourselves, it seems," he told his friends.   
  
"So you actually do have slow days?" Curtis grumbled. "I was beginning to wonder."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Gary asked, puzzled by the remark. "We had the whole day, yesterday!"  
  
"And look what happened!" Steve snorted. "You and Fishman, here, almost ended up as a 'spare.' Not my idea of a fun day."  
  
Gary winced at that snide, if accurate, observation. He still blamed himself for not checking the Paper more often than he had. The headline had been there, buried on page six. About the disturbance at the track, at least. What might it have said if he hadn't been staggered by that sudden migraine? Another thing that still puzzled him. All his tests had come back normal, so had the timing of the headache been a coincidence, or was his guardian angel putting in overtime to make up for that accident a year ago? By the time Dr. Griner had made his appearance, the pain had subsided to nothing more than a dull throb. Now, it was little more than a bad memory.  
  
"I'll admit that things didn't . . . exactly turn out the way we planned," Gary told them, ignoring Steve's raised eyebrow, "b-but w-we had a pretty good time . . . up to that point, didn't we?"  
  
"Sure," Curtis grumbled. "We had a ball. Up until you were almost trampled in the stampede. If you can know all this stuff ahead of time to save everyone else, why is it so hard to keep you from getting hurt?"  
  
"Negative ions?" Gary grumbled. "Bad karma? How should I know! This thing didn't come with an instruction book. Sometimes things happen that I'm not supposed to change, apparently."  
  
"Lay off him, guys," Chuck said, coming to the defense of his friend. "Don't ya think he woulda told us if he knew? This guy is after his head, after all. Not mine or yours. He'd be crazy to set himself up like that."  
  
"You're talking about a guy who just finished therapy," Steve reminded the little man with a dry chuckle. He slid behind the wheel and fastened his seatbelt. "It wouldn't be the first time someone has put a 'hit' out on himself. We had a case like that just last year. Guy was trying to get around a suicide clause in his insurance policy."  
  
"Well, not Gar," Chuck insisted. "I'll admit he's a little strange . . ."  
  
"Have you noticed a pattern developing here?" Gary asked, turning in his seat to face Curtis. "It's like I've suddenly turned invisible, or something."  
  
"What do you mean?" Curtis asked, clearly puzzled by the strange comment. "You're right here! Plain as day!"  
  
"Exactly!" Gary exclaimed. "So why is it that, after just a very few minutes, you guys start talking about me as if I weren't?"  
  
The other three exchanged sheepish looks.  
  
"Are we doing that?" Chuck asked, a pained look on his cherubic face.  
  
"I think we are," Steve murmured apologetically. "It's just that, well, we're trying to analyze this from so many different angles."  
  
"That's right," Curtis spoke up. "We have to eliminate all possible suspects to get down to the one who's actually trying to kill him."  
  
"But that brings us back to the big question," Chuck complained. "Who'd wanna kill a guy who just runs a bar and rescues kittens from trees as a hobby? "  
  
"Guys."  
  
"You'd be surprised," Curtis replied. "There are all kinds of sickos out there. People who might see him as 'interfering' in 'God's plan for man's ultimate self-destruction,' or some such nonsense."  
  
"Yoo-hoo. Guys."  
  
"Jason's right," Steve nodded. "Or it could still be someone he's crossed without even knowing it. Someone he's rescued might 've had enemies that now see him as an obstacle."  
  
"It could even be a jealous boyfriend," Curtis mused. "After all, he's not bad looking. Some wacko might consider him as competition for the girl of his dreams."  
  
"Hello? Remember me?"  
  
"Gar?" Chuck snorted. "A Casanova? Are you nuts? The guy chokes if a girl bats her eyelashes at 'im. He's not the kinda guy to go 'cruisin' for chicks,' if you know what I mean."  
  
"C'mon!" Steve snorted. "You can't tell me he'd pass up some pretty young thing who 'came on' to him! He's only human, after all."  
  
"S'cuse me."   
  
"He'd run like a rabbit," Chuck assured the detective. "A monk has more of a social life than . . ."  
  
Their discussion was interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek. Startled, ears still ringing, they all turned to look at the fourth man in the car. Gary still had his free hand to his mouth, ready to give out with an even louder whistle, if necessary. Seeing that he finally had their attention, he lowered his hand and looked at Steve.  
  
"I rest my case," he grumbled, "Can we go home, now?"  
  
As Steve started the van, Chuck looked back at Curtis. "Have you noticed that he's gotten a little testy, lately?"  
  
"Chuck!"  
  
Raising both hands in a placating gesture, Chuck turned back around and settled into his seat. "Just making an observation," he mumbled.   
  
****************  
  
Curtis got out first, checking the street to assure himself that no one suspicious was hanging about. He even scanned the nearby rooftops, checking for snipers, before he would allow Gary to step out of the van.   
  
There were only three or four steps from the edge of the sidewalk, to the front door. If not for the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and the cat yowling from the doorway, they might have been the last steps Gary would ever take.  
  
Startled by the animal's unusual behavior, Gary staggered back a step, bumping into Steve and Chuck, who were just a step or two behind him. Curtis, who was almost at the door, paused to see what was wrong. It was at that moment that a loud report rang out from across the street, and something whistled by Gary's head, close enough for him to feel the breeze from its passage! At almost the same instant, something hit the brick façade of the building, just below one of the window panes. It then ricocheted off to break out a back window of a car parked illegally near the corner across the street. Immediately their ears were assaulted by a strident car alarm.  
  
Stunned, Gary stared at the broken window until Curtis grabbed him by the jacket and yanked him back to the side of the van! Heart pounding, he crouched down next to Chuck, who looked just as shaken as Gary felt. Steve and Sgt. Curtis both had their guns out, ready to use them if necessary.   
  
"Stay here," Curtis ordered. He started to rise up, only to duck back down as another shot rang out. This time, it hit the driver's side window of the van. Curtis snapped out a few words that would not be found in any military field manual. A moment later, Steve echoed his sentiments as a third bullet spanged off the hood less than an inch above his head!  
  
"This gets old real fast," the detective murmured crossly. "Our shooter is at the corner rooftop, with a real good view of the street."  
  
"I feel like I'm back in Bosnia," the young Marine grumbled. "Look, unless someone inside has called 911, we're on our own, here. One of us is gonna have to get under his line of fire."  
  
"I'll do it," Steve volunteered. "Cover me."  
  
"No, dammit," Curtis growled. "I'm faster. You cover me."  
  
"Look, Curtis . . ."  
  
"Guys," Chuck spoke up. "Where's Gary?"  
  
The two men stopped their argument to look around. Hobson was gone! Two more shots rang out, hitting nothing but pavement this time, as the sniper tried to track the man running across the street! By some miracle, Gary made it without getting hit. They could see him, now, his back pressed against the side of the building, breathing hard. After a moment to catch his breath, Gary ducked into the front door.  
  
"If this bozo doesn't kill him," Curtis grumbled, "I will. Let's get over there before he gets too far ahead of us."  
  
There were no more shots as the two armed men crossed the suddenly empty street in a crouching run. Ducking into the storefront, they almost ran over Gary, who was waiting by the door. Steve grabbed him by the shirtfront, almost slamming him into the wall before recalling Gary's injury.  
  
"Do you want to tell me what kind of fool stunt you were pulling, Hobson?" he growled into the younger man's startled face.  
  
"I-I figured," Gary stammered helplessly, "i-if I'm in here, h-he'll stop shooting up the street a-and you guys have a-a better chance t-to get over here and catch him."  
  
For a moment, it looked as if the big detective wanted to hit the younger man. With a sigh of resignation, Steve released his hold on Gary's shirt.   
  
"And what if he'd hit you?" he asked.  
  
"It'd hurt like hell," Gary murmured. He looked behind Steve. "Where'd Sgt. Curtis go?"  
  
"To find our sniper, I imagine," Steve grumbled. "Why me, God? Why me?"  
  
*********  
  
They found Curtis on the roof, looking down on the glass and brick façade of McGinty's. A high-powered, semi-automatic rifle lay at his feet.  
  
"He jumped over to the next rooftop and ran down the fire escape," he grumbled. "That's probably how he got up here. All I got was a glimpse of someone in a dark, hooded jogging outfit. About six foot, medium build. Probably one eighty. And, Hobson, what was the idea of . . . "  
  
"Later," Steve growled, kneeling down to look at the weapon without touching it, or getting close enough to disturb the footprints he could faintly see. "We can take turns slow roasting him. I take it our shooter was wearing gloves?"  
  
"Of course," the Marine sighed. "I left everything as I found it for the forensics lab, just in case he missed a spot. This guy is seriously starting to bug me." He looked over the edge of the roof at the sound of approaching sirens. As he watched, an unmarked car pulled up in front of the bar. "There's Armstrong," he commented dryly. "Guess someone did call 911."  
  
"I-I did," Gary murmured, holding up a cell-phone. "Just before I . . . well, anyway, um, wh-what do we do, now?"  
  
"We turn the scene over to Armstrong," Steve told him in a tone that brooked no arguments, "and we get you safely tucked into bed. And if you ever pull another stunt like that . . .!"  
  
"What was I supposed to do?" Gary demanded heatedly. "Cower behind the van while that lunatic shot up the whole street? How many people was I supposed to let die before he was caught? You, Curtis, Chuck? Those cops down there? How many? Right now, the only one that's been hurt is me. Crazy as this may sound, I'd prefer to keep it that way."  
  
"Now, look, Hobson . . ." Curtis began.  
  
"Apparently, I'm the only one that is looking!" Gary yelled back, cutting him off. Taking a deep breath, he continued in a voice tight with emotion. "Th-that stupid bowling ball stunt yesterday could just as easily have killed Chuck. Or one of you. O-or the guy with his kid, a four year old kid, right in front of us. How many were hurt in the panic after it hit? H-how many innocent people could've been hurt today? You saw how those bullets were going wild! What if . . . what if someone had been in that car? What if the next one had ricocheted through the window of that restaurant across the street? You tell me! What was I supposed to do?"  
  
In the face of Gary's impassioned argument, the other two had no answer. In spite of the apparent rashness of his actions, Hobson had done what he'd felt was the right thing. It had, in fact, resolved the situation without fatality. If only they had been able to catch the sniper, as well!  
  
"You're right," Steve sighed, finally holstering his gun. "Just . . . next time, give us a little warning? Please? I'm too young for heart failure."  
  
"Sorry," Gary mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. "There didn't seem to be a lot of time. Besides, you'd 've tried to stop me."  
  
"That's a given," Curtis grumbled.  
  
Armstrong arrived at that moment, followed closely by two uniformed officers. He quickly set the two cops to securing the crime scene while he questioned the three men already on the roof. He shook his head at news of Hobson's latest exploit.  
  
"How are we supposed to keep you alive if you keep taking chances like that?" he snapped.  
  
Steve quickly stepped in before Gary could get started again. Steering the younger man toward the stairs, he shot a look over his shoulder at the detective.  
  
"Why don't we take this discussion inside?" he suggested. "It's getting a little chilly out here." He pointed toward the two uniformed officers with his chin. "Let's not fight in public," he added softly.  
  
Safely inside McGinty's, Gary was quickly assailed with questions from all sides. Marissa simply wanted to know that he was all right. His parents asked if he had lost his mind. Among other things. On top of that, Lois was in rare form. Poor Gary had barely gotten through the front door before she was taking him to task for his 'rash actions,' which everyone had seen through the windows.   
  
"How could you do something so . . . so foolish?" she snapped, paying no attention to where they were. "You could've been killed!"   
  
"Almost wish I had been." Gary muttered under his breath.  
  
"What was that?" Lois asked in her sternest 'mother' tone.  
  
"Nothing," Gary murmured, his expression closed, stony. "Are you through?"   
  
"Not by a . . ."  
  
"Good," Gary interrupted in clipped tones. "I'm tired. If no one minds, I'm going upstairs." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed for the backrooms. He tried to ignore the sympathetic glances, but he could feel their eyes on the back of his head. Once past his office, he practically ran up the stairs to his loft. 'How could she?' he thought to himself as he slammed the door behind him. 'As many times as we've been through this, how dare she jump all over me like that in front of . . . everyone!'  
  
He was still pacing back and forth, trying to get his hurt and anger under control before one of his ever-present watchdogs came to check on him, when he heard a tentative tap in the glass.  
  
"Gary?" his mom's timid voice filtered through the barrier. "May I come in?" When he didn't answer, she continued. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she apologized. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to embarrass you like that, but . . . when I saw you running . . . and the bullets hitting the pavement by your feet . . . it scared me! All I could see was you . . . lying in that hospital bed. Fighting for your life. Again. I-it all just came . . . boiling out of me! I'm sorry! Please don't shut me out!"  
  
She stood there on the outside of her son's door, praying that she hadn't gone too far this time. Silence was her only answer for a very long moment. No angry words, no bitter recriminations, not even the sound of his footsteps anymore. Stricken, Lois started to turn away, fighting back the tears, when the door eased open just a crack.  
  
"How can I shut you out," Gary murmured, "when I can't shut you up?"  
  
"I-if you let me in," she whispered, "I'll promise to be quiet."  
  
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Gary's mouth as he stepped back from the door. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he told her, his voice tired, husky. "I'm sorry, too, Mom. I know all this has been hard on you and Dad, b-but you can't expect me to live my life i-in a bubble! And you can't expect me to sit back and let someone else be hurt because of me! Risks go along with the job! Do you think it's easy to go out there every day, not knowing if something I do, someone I save, won't ultimately spell disaster somewhere down the line? Or if something won't happen to put me in front of the train, plain, bus, or car I'm trying to save someone else from? This scares me every bit as much as it does you. E-especially after . . . after recent events. But there's no one for me to turn this over to. The job is mine, Mom. For life. You're just gonna have to accept that and stop treating me like a child."  
  
"But, you're my son . . ."  
  
"And I'll always be your son," he told her, taking both her of hands in his good one. "Unless you keep holding on so tight, you push me away. I'm just not your little boy anymore. I'm a man, Mom. Please grant me the dignity of treating me like one. Can you do that for me? Please?"  
  
"I'll try," she nodded, sniffling. "I, um, I guess we should let everyone else know that . . . that they don't have to walk on eggshells around us."  
  
Gary slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders and led her to the sofa.  
  
"That can wait," he told her as he sat her down. "Right now, let's just be mother and son for a few minutes longer."  
  
"Oh! What about your father?" she gasped. "He thinks you're never going to speak to either one of us again!" She gave her son a sheepish smile. "He said a few harsh words, too, as I recall."  
  
"And he can make his own apologies," Gary smiled in reply. "There are no cowards in the Hobson Clan."  
  
************** 


	5. Tying Up Loose Ends

Gary and Lois were still talking half an hour later, when they heard someone tapping at the door.  
  
"Gar?" It was his father. "Gar? Son, are ya in there? C'mon, Gary. Open up. Don't keep your old man standin' out here in the cold!"  
  
Giving his mother a mischievous grin, Gary stood up and walked to the door, moving as quietly as he could. He stood there a moment, his hands only inches from the knob.  
  
"Have a heart, son!" Bernie pleaded. "This is embarrassing! Please?"  
  
Gary eased the door open, peering around the edge.  
  
"And what you guys did downstairs wasn't?" he asked calmly. "Besides, it was good enough for Mom."  
  
Stepping back, he waved his dad into the loft. Hesitantly, Bernie stepped across the threshold.   
  
"I can understand if you're upset . . ." he began.  
  
"Upset," Gary repeated, chuckling ironically. "For a while there, Dad, I was more than 'upset.' You do this to me every time, you know that? I can understand it from Mom. It's instinctive, I think. But you? I would've expected you to . . . to be able to see things from my viewpoint. To see that . . . that I can't just sit back and watch someone else be hurt because of me."  
  
Gary led his father over and sat him down beside Lois. He then began pacing in the tiny space in front of the sofa.  
  
"Ya know, I love you two very much," he sighed, "and I know you love me, but you can't keep trying to run my life! You especially can't keep scolding me in front of my staff! God! Talk about embarrassing! A-and you promised me, promised me, that you weren't going to do that anymore! The two of you sat right down there, in the same room where you just ripped me apart, and gave me your word not to do that again!" He paused, rubbing at the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. "This isn't just my home, guys, it's also my place of business. I have to keep a little self-respect, or I can't keep good people working for me. I had to let Jake go because he kept ignoring my orders to tone down on the spices. That's what happens when people lose respect. They try to walk all over you. A-and scenes like we went through downstairs . . . they make me wonder if you have any respect for me."  
  
"Gar!" Bernie protested. "Of course we respect you. You're our son!"  
  
"You're not getting the picture, Dad," Gary sighed. "You love me as your son. You respect me as a man. There's a big difference. I've worked hard to earn the respect and loyalty of a pretty good crew. I'd hate to lose them because they think it's okay to talk down to me. T-to scold me for taking chances. You . . . you can't keep putting me in a position like that!"  
  
Lois and Bernie exchanged a red-faced look.   
  
"Don't you miss the days when he had problems expressing his feelings to us?" Bernie murmured with a rueful grin.  
  
"He has a point, dear," Lois murmured in reply. "Ever since the accident, we've treated him like a child. We haven't stopped to consider his situation, or feelings, at all." She stood up, wrapping her arms around Gary's waist and burying her face against his chest. "I promise to wait until we're alone before I go all 'maternal' on you from now on," she told him. "That's the best I can do. I just don't know if I can take another bedside vigil. This last time . . . you weren't even . . . I mean . . . the Paper wasn't even involved and you almost died. J-just like . . . like when you fell. This past year, you have been so close to death so many times! I don't want to have to go shopping for a black dress."  
  
"I dunno," Gary teased. "You look pretty good in black. Wear that pearl necklace Dad got you for your birthday, and that diamond brooch great-grandma left you . . . Ouch!"  
  
Lois popped him on the chest again as she stepped back, biting her lip to keep from laughing.  
  
"You brat!" she giggled. "I'm trying to get serious here! I don't want to go to your funeral!"  
  
"God willing," he told her, "you won't. I can't make any promises, guys. I can only do the best I can. If we can keep these little discussions private, though, I guess that'll be good enough. And, Mom," he added, rubbing the place she had struck with his free hand, "could you hit the other side, next time? That really hurt!"  
  
***********  
  
After a few more minutes of less serious conversation, Lois and Bernie had to leave. Another realtor had a 'promising prospect' for them. They had yet to find a house they approved of, or that would fit their price range.  
  
Once they were gone, Gary took the opportunity to stretch out on the bed. Since the shooting, he had been regaining his strength steadily, but that dash across the street had worn him out. Or it could 've been the stress of being shot at . . . again. Or the emotional outburst on the rooftop. Or the one in his room just moments ago. 'Probably 'all of the above,'' Gary thought to himself. He had been running on adrenaline since that first shot was fired! Now, all the tension and energy just seemed to drain right out of him.  
  
He had barely closed his eyes when he heard a tapping on his door. With a weary sigh, Gary raised his head to see the distorted images of Armstrong, Curtis, and Sloan. Flopping back, he called for them to come on in.  
  
"I promise not to bite," he told them as they filed into the room. "If you're here to carve off another piece of me, though . . ."  
  
"Truce," Armstrong promised, both hands raised in mock surrender. "After that scene downstairs, I think you've suffered enough. How do you feel?"  
  
"About as tired as I've ever been," Gary admitted. "I don't seem to get much of a breathing space, lately. I just jump from one crisis to the next. Then I get raked over the coals for taking chances."  
  
"Which you do on a regular basis," Paul responded. "How can any of us protect you when you pull stunts like that?"  
  
"I never asked for protection," Gary reminded them. "As I recall, you threatened to lock me up for my own good. Then you and General Hammond double-teamed me, giving me three choices. Jail, military custody, or Curtis. No offense, Jason, but you were the lesser of three evils."  
  
"None taken," the Marine shrugged. "Just don't ever do anything like that again."  
  
Struggling upright, Gary directed a disappointed look toward the young soldier. "You still don't get it, do you?" he sighed. "I don't want anyone else getting hurt on my account! If I can stop that from happening, I will. Whatever it takes. Now, if you aren't here to read me the riot act, what else can I do for you?"  
  
"You can tell us why you never seem to know when something bad is about to happen to you," Steve suggested. "Why is it that you can know about things like car bombs, and potential drownings, car accidents and robberies in time to stop them from happening, and not know that you're about to get shot?"  
  
Sinking back with a sigh, Gary covered his eyes with his good arm. "Ask me another one," he murmured. "That wasn't in the instruction book, either. How much have they told you, Paul?"  
  
"Only what you told Steve," was the detective's curt reply. "What I want to know is: why did I have to hear it from him? Why couldn't you have told me yourself?"  
  
"Do the words 'delusional' and 'crackpot' ring any bells?" Gary replied in an acidic tone. "If I'd even suggested anything like that to you, I'd be having another competency evaluation. Y-you've never trusted me, Armstrong. Never. Even now, you're thinking that . . . that I could've set all this up myself. As some kind o-of attention getter. What was it you called it? Munchkin's Syndrome or something?"  
  
"Munchausen's By Proxy," Paul corrected with a tight-lipped grin. "You're a little tall to be a Munchkin."  
  
"Whatever," Gary grumbled. He uncovered his eyes to give the detective a steely glare. "The gist of it was that I went looking for trouble, or tried to manufacture it. You even chased me all over the tri-state area, throwing that word 'delusional' around like confetti. All because I couldn't tell you how I knew what was gonna happen before it did! So you tell me, how would you explain it? For the record, in terms that wouldn't get you locked away in the booby hatch for the rest of your life!" As Armstrong looked away without answering, Gary sadly shook his head. "That's what I thought. If it's any comfort, you're not the first one to feel that way about me. One . . ." He paused to lick suddenly dry lips, then continued in a husky rasp. "One guy kept asking me if I saw v-visions, or heard voices. H-he tried to frame me for something, too. Only I wasn't gonna be in any kinda shape to deny the charges."   
  
"I never knew that," Paul murmured. "It wasn't in your record."  
  
"They hushed it up," Steve told him. "I had to twist a lot of arms to find out about it myself. What was the guy's name? Marley? Yeah. J.T. Marley. Only, he called himself Dobbs."  
  
Curtis, who had been watching his charge carefully for signs of stress or fatigue, couldn't help but notice the way Gary shuddered at just the mention of that name. It was something that he would have to bring up in his next report.   
  
"You should've told me," Armstrong insisted. "About all of this."  
  
"I was told," Gary sighed, "that I was never to speak of it. To anyone. If I did, they had a cell with my name on it in Leavenworth. To tell the truth, though, they didn't need the threats. I just wanted to forget it ever happened. But two men were dead, and a third died at my feet. How do you forget something like that?"   
  
The young Marine was quick to notice a slight slurring in his patient's speech. Hobson was starting to drift off again. Curtis knew that Gary had not gotten much sleep the night before due to the frequent 'neuro checks' that went with a concussion. Add that to the adrenaline rush he must be coming down from and it was no wonder the man was feeling sleepy. Nonetheless, Jason did a quick check of Gary's vital signs.  
  
"Are you feeling okay?" Curtis asked as he took Gary's wrist between his thumb and first two fingers. He was reassured by a slow nod and a strong, steady rhythm.  
  
"Jus' fine," Gary murmured. "Li'l tired s'all. Where's Chuck? I'd 've thought he'd be in on this li'l Inquisition."  
  
"He had to call home," Steve replied with a shrug. "I think Jade has him on a short tether for some reason."  
  
"He forgot to bring the pictures," Gary chuckled sleepily. "Mom's been on his case since he got here for the same thing. Word to the wise, fellas. If you've got kids, don't come near my mom without a wallet full of snapshots. Candid snapshots."  
  
As Gary's eyes drifted shut, Curtis signaled the others to silence and began to herd them toward the door. "He's worn out," the young Marine whispered. "I guess all the excitement's getting to him."  
  
"You make it sound like we're putting the baby down for his nap," Armstrong murmured as they filed out. "Did you remember to burp him after he ate?"  
  
"I heard that!"   
  
****************  
  
Gary wasn't sure how long he'd been dozing when he heard a tentative tapping on the glass panel of his door. Once more, he turned his head to see a blurred figure on the other side. It was Chuck.  
  
"C'mon in," he called out wearily. "I was wondering where you'd gone."  
  
"Jade wants me back home ASAP," Chuck sighed. "She had to take Alexandria to the doctor and they admitted her to the hospital. Measles, or something like that. Anyway, she said if I didn't get my butt back home to help take care of Little Gary while she stays with Alex, I could kiss certain delicate portions of my anatomy goodbye. That sounded a little too painful to even think about, so I've already booked the next flight to LA. It leaves in a coupla hours. Are you gonna be okay?"  
  
"I'll be fine, Chuck," Gary nodded. "I just tire easy, right now. You need help packing?"  
  
"Nah," Chuck shrugged as he tossed one of his bags on the bed. He flipped the top open, just missing Gary's legs. "Oops. Sorry, pal. Anyway, I figure I can grab a cab and get to the airport in time to get checked in with only half an hour to spare. I hate to run out on ya like this, but Alex has me worried. This is twice she's gotten sick, and the twins aren't even a year old yet. The first time was just a cold, but . . ."  
  
"She's your baby, Chuck," Gary reminded his friend. "You don't need to explain anything. I'd give anything to be in your shoes. Not that I don't hope she gets better before you get home," he hastened to add. "It's just . . . you're a dad, Chuck! A father! Someday, you're gonna send them off for their first day in school, their first dates, teaching them to drive. You're gonna live your whole life over again through them! Only better!"  
  
"I should hope so," Chuck grumbled as he tossed his clothes into the suitcase. "Growing up was the pits! I want my kids to grow up right, but I don't want to look back in twenty years and find that I missed out on them just bein' kids!" He clicked the first case shut and stood it by the door. The second suitcase quickly took its place on the bed. "I don't wanna be one of those dads who spends more time workin' to support his kids than he does actually being with 'em. I want my babies to know I love 'em." He crammed the last of his things into the bag and snapped it shut. He then bent down and planted a quick kiss on Gary's forehead. Before the other man could react, Chuck pinched his cheek, giving it a little shake. "Just like I love you, big guy. Don't make me rush back for your funeral."  
  
"What's with you, Mom, and funerals?" Gary grumbled, rubbing the tender spot on his cheek as he shot Chuck a baleful glance. "You two seem to have a lot of confidence in me lately," he added sarcastically.  
  
"Gar," Chuck sighed, "we know you! You're not gonna let a little thing like a death threat slow you down."  
  
"But there haven't been any threats!" Gary protested. "This bozo skipped the threats and jumped straight to the action! He must be on a tight schedule."  
  
"Whatever," Chuck sighed. "Keep your head down, okay? Don't make me find a new uncle for my kids." With that, he pulled his best friend into a rough embrace. "You take care, you hear me?" he added in a tight voice. "You 'n' me, we still got a long way to go. Don't you get to the Pearly Gates without me there to show you how to sneak in."  
  
"If I do," Gary promised, returning the hug one-handed, "I'll leave your name at the door."  
  
"You do that," the little guy replied. With a sigh, he released his hold, letting Gary sink back onto the bed. "Well! I guess this is goodbye. Again. You'll come out to visit when you can?"  
  
"I may leave Mom and Dad in charge for a week or so," Gary grinned. "Expect me when you see me."  
  
"Yeah," Chuck grinned, trying to keep the tears from his voice. "Well, take care, Gary."  
  
With that, he hefted his bags and practically fled from the room, pulling the door closed behind him. As the latch clicked shut, Gary had to wonder if he would ever see his friend again.  
  
************  
  
Gary was just starting to drift off to sleep again when he heard the noise. A soft, discreet sound. Like something being quietly slid out of the way. It had sounded close, too. As if someone were stepping up to the right side of his . . . bed.  
  
Without another thought, Gary rolled his body to the left. There was a sharp pain across his right bicep, and then he heard something plunge into the mattress with a distinct ripping sound! As he rolled to his feet, he had a brief glimpse of a dark-clad figure before his face and eyes were hit with a hot, stinging mist. Staggering back, Gary let loose with a choked cry! Pepper spray! The sorry SOB had hit him with pepper spray! Groping blindly with his free hand, Gary bumped into the bedside table, knocking it over with a crash! Falling to one knee, he could hear footsteps as his assailant hurried around the end of the bed! He needed something, anything to use as a weapon! Finally, cursing volubly as the spray burned its way into his eyes, Gary found the slender aluminum cane he had been using until just yesterday. Getting a firm grip, he swung it in a wide arc, hoping to discourage his attacker. To his satisfaction, he was rewarded with a meaty 'thunk,' and a muffled curse, as he connected.  
  
"Who are you?" he demanded, still waving the cane. "Wh-why are you doing this? Answer me! What've I ever done to you?" No answer but harsh, heavy breathing. "Look, fella. If you want me dead so bad, you . . .you gotta have a reason! At least give me a hint!"  
  
"Stay away from her!" a harsh, heavily accented voice demanded in a muffled whisper.   
  
Startled, Gary almost lowered his guard. Had he heard that right? In the sudden silence, he could hear feet clambering up the stairwell. Help was on its way.   
  
Apparently, his attacker heard them, too. Gary could hear stealthy footsteps headed towards the back exit.   
  
"Wait!" he pleaded. "Stay away from who? What's this all about? Tell me!" His only response was a dull 'thwok!' as something struck the wall just inches from his right ear, and a muffled hiss.  
  
"Stay away from her!"  
  
"Hobson!" Armstrong's voice demanded as he burst through the door a second later. "Wh . . . oh, sh--! Are you all right?" That last bit had sounded very close as powerful hands helped Gary to his feet.  
  
"P-pepper spray," Gary wheezed. "Aw, Christ! My eyes're on fire!"  
  
"Let's get 'im to the sink, here." That was Curtis. "We gotta flush his eyes. Easy does it, pal. Steve, keep pressure on that arm." They guided him to the kitchenette and helped him position his head over the sink. "Now, hold real still. We'll get you some relief in a second."  
  
Cool water was drizzled over Gary's eyes and he was told to blink several times. After a while, a very long while, the burning began to subside. They then turned his head to get the other side more thoroughly. Curtis asked one of the others to get a bottle marked 'sterile saline' from his kit. He then used that to flush the last of the stinging solution from Gary's red-rimmed eyes. While all this had been going on, Steve and Paul had been plying Gary with questions about the attack. Gary answered as best he could, in between acid comments on the mystery man's antecedents, possible pedigree, and ultimate destination. He was on a roll.  
  
"A-all he said," Gary sighed as he ran out of steam, "was 'Stay away from her.' But he wouldn't say who!" He was having to hold still as Curtis rubbed a soothing ointment into the ruddy places around his eyes. "God, that feels better! Thanks."  
  
"Now, let me get a look at that arm," Curtis murmured. "Man! That's gonna need stitches! Could one of you hand me that kit?" he added as he sat Gary on the sofa. Taking the medical bag, he began laying out his instruments.  
  
"Whoa!" Gary cried as the Marine first extracted a vial and a syringe. "What do ya think you're doing? You're not stickin' me with that!"  
  
"Oh? You'd prefer I sew you up without a local?" Curtis asked, acting surprised.   
  
"S-sew . . . I thought you were talkin' about going to the emergency room!" Gary exclaimed.   
  
"And have to sit around for a coupla hours before you're even seen?" Curtis snorted. "I can have you stitched up and ready to go in less than twenty minutes. Now, just hold still. This is gonna sting." Before Gary could utter another protest, Curtis quickly swabbed the skin above the wound and jabbed the needle in. Checking to be sure he had not struck a vein, he injected the numbing medication. "Now, since this is such a long, deep cut, I'm gonna do the same just below. Hold still. There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"  
  
Gary gave him a look that needed no translation. The redness caused by the pepper spray only added to the effect.   
  
"Oookay," the young medic murmured. "We give that a moment to take effect, then I can get to work." Looking over at the bed, he grimaced. "Then we'll see if that mattress can be saved."  
  
"Wha . . .? Aw, man!" Gary groaned. A large mound of padding was protruding through a long slit running across the mattress and bedding. "I had that broken in just right, too. And that comforter was given to me by my grandmother when I went to college!" He started to get up, intending to take a closer look, but Steve held him down.  
  
"It'll keep," the blonde cop assured him. "Do you have any idea who this guy was talking about? Who're you dating right now?"  
  
Gary turned to give both detectives a steady gaze. "You do remember who you're talking to, here? The guy that monks look at and snicker up their sleeves? My last date was before the accident. And that was a disaster!"  
  
"Wasn't that with Toni Brigatti?" Paul asked. He averted his gaze as Curtis picked up one of the sutures. "You just went out for coffee a couple of days before it happened."  
  
"And ended up in one of those fights that always seem to be my fault," Gary sighed. He grimaced as the young Marine set to work. "Funny, I never seem to see the warning signs with her. We can be smiling and laughing one second, the next she's calling me names and storming out. Could he mean Brigatti? I haven't seen her in . . . God! Since some time in April. That first night we were rehearsing the play."  
  
Steve took a seat in the armchair, while Paul started pacing behind the sofa.  
  
"It all keeps coming back to that play," the Chicago cop mused. "The apparent stalking started there, with the side door being left open. The gun was tampered with there, and you were shot onstage. Then nothing happens until you start going back to rehearsals. The very next day, someone tries to bean you with a bowling ball. Then two attacks today! That's a bit much for coincidence. Even for you."  
  
Gary tried not to flinch as Curtis continued with his handiwork. How long was that gash? "Well, th-that narrows it down some," he murmured. "There's, um, Bonnie Rousseau, but she didn't show up 'til that night. And we'd found that door open several times before that. Crystal, but she's dating this Danny Bellagio who was giving me voice lessons. Don't laugh. It was to help me get over that stutter. He saw me as more of a challenge than a threat, I think. Sophie and Reggie just got married last year. And Darlene is Crumb's steady girlfriend. That just leaves Elaine."  
  
"She's the tall blonde that plays Angelique?" Steve asked. At Gary's careful nod, the blonde cop sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "She's pretty enough to attract this kind of attention. What do you know about her?"  
  
"Not much," Gary sighed. "I don't think I even know her last name. I first met her a coupla years ago. I kept her from getting crushed by a falling mobile sculpture. A-at the library. She was in a meeting of the, um, the Jane Austin Society. She came by that one time to thank me and . . . that was the last I saw of her. Until Crumb talked me into doing the play. She had to remind me where we'd met," he finished lamely, a slow flush warming his cheeks. "I'd forgotten all about her."  
  
"With a spitfire like Brigatti on your mind," Paul chuckled, "no wonder."   
  
"Hold still!" Jason snapped. He tightened his hold on Gary's arm as his patient started to turn, mouth half open to deliver a scathing remark. "Last one. There! Now, let me just clean this up and cover it. I'll call Doc Fraiser in a bit and see if we need to up the antibiotics. I'm not gonna ask about tetanus. I figure you got one when you broke your leg."  
  
"That and a bunch of vaccines," Gary grumbled. "I think I've been inoculated against everything but bad luck."  
  
Before anyone could reply to that, there was a knock on the door. Paul stepped over to admit the uniformed officers he had called on his way up the stairs.  
  
"We canvassed the area," one officer reported, "but didn't find anyone suspicious, sir. Just a coupla bag ladies and some kids skipping school. He must've cleared the area before we arrived."  
  
"Great," the big detective sighed. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped up to where a large bladed carving knife was still protruding from the wall to the left of Gary's bed. Grasping it carefully at the juncture of the blade and handle, he worked it loose. Wrapping it in the cloth, he handed it to the officer. "You know the routine," he said. "Prints, fibers, whatever. And get a photographer up here ASAP. I think the victim would like to get his mattress replaced before the stores close."  
  
*************  
  
"How soon can you have it delivered?" Gary was saying into the phone half an hour later. "Great. McGinty's, on the corner of Illinois and Franklin. I live right above . . . That's right, the loft. You remember. And could you send a set of bed linens with that? No, whatever you've got is fine. Thanks. One hour." He returned the phone to its cradle with a sigh. "Well, at least I'll have something to sleep on tonight. Now, if I can just find someone to repair this comforter."  
  
"Let me take it home," Armstrong offered. "Meredith knows this woman who could probably make it look as good as new. Do you have extra blankets in the meantime?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary sighed. "I'm okay in that department. Thanks." He looked over to where the police photographer was packing up his equipment. "I'll need a copy for the insurance company," he reminded the detective. "And the report, too." He brought his left hand up to rub at his tired eyes, but a sharp reminder from Sgt. Curtis stopped him in the act. Frustrated, Gary plopped onto the sofa, rubbing his temple instead. "This sucks," he sighed. "I guess I need to get an alarm put on that back door, too."  
  
"Already taken care of," the Marine assured him. "I called General Hammond from downstairs. Your new security system will be up and running by this time tomorrow. They would've been here tonight, but we thought you'd like to get a little sleep."  
  
Gary could only nod in agreement. It saddened him to realize he had been attacked twice in his own home, in just a little over six months! Worse, that he had no real clue as to why this person would want to harm him!  
  
"Cheer up, Hobson," Curtis grinned. "We'll catch this guy the minute he slips up. Then your life can get back to normal."  
  
As if rehearsed, three voices murmured: "Define 'normal.'"  
  
Steve and Paul exchanged amused glances, then looked over to where Gary had his head lying on the back of the couch, his eyes closed. The young civilian was too tired to appreciate the irony of the remark. Taking a seat to either side of him, they reluctantly began another round of probing questions.  
  
"You said he had an accent," Steve reminded him. "What kind of accent? German, French, Italian, Chinese? Could you recognize it at all?"  
  
"Gee," Gary grumbled. "It was kinda hard to tell. He only spoke four words. 'Stay away from her,'" he repeated in a very close imitation of the whispered command. "Just like that. Period."  
  
"What about the voice itself?" Paul asked. "Was it low, high, mellow, rough?"  
  
"Kinda gravelly," Gary replied. "Harsh. Just a loud, garbled whisper. Kinda like he was trying to disguise it."  
  
"That doesn't give us much to go on," Armstrong sighed. "Maybe you'll recognize the voice if you hear it again."  
  
Gary raised his head to fix the big detective with a steady glare. "I-I have this strange feeling," he said, "that the next time I hear that voice . . . it could be the last thing I hear. Ever."  
  
"He has a point," Steve sighed. "I just wish we had some kind of clue as to this guy's agenda. Who does he want you to stay away from? And why? Is she related to him, or is he obsessed with her? What? We've got so damned little to go on!"  
  
"Tell me about it," Gary sighed, laying his head back once more. "This guy is giving me more credit than I deserve. He must think I'm some kinda Casanova, or something. He doesn't know I'm lucky to get a date every coupla years."  
  
"Every coupla . . . You're kiddin' me, right?" Curtis chuckled. "I'd 've thought you'd have to beat 'em off with a stick!"  
  
"Hobson doesn't even need a toothpick to fight 'em off," Armstrong commented dryly, an amused gleam in his eyes. "Once they get past his looks, most women are under whelmed by his charming personality."  
  
Without moving his head, Gary fixed the black detective with a heated glare. The lingering redness of his blood-shot eyes multiplied the effect by a factor of ten. "God will get you for that one, Paul," he murmured. "If He doesn't, I will." A slow smile played across his face as he added, "Maybe Meredith can help me come up with a suitable revenge."  
  
"That's low, Hobson," Armstrong chuckled. "Recruiting a traitor in my own camp. Trouble is, she just might go for it. Meredith loves a good joke."  
  
"I'll remember that," Gary promised. "Seriously, though," he sighed, "I just never seem to have the time to work on a relationship. Most women seem to sense that and steer clear. And I guess I'm still a little, well, 'gun-shy' in that department. I-I mean, why invest in something that's gonna end up exploding in your face? I've been 'slow-roasted' so many times, I feel like I'm gonna wake up one day with an apple in my mouth. It's just so . . . ironic that this guy thinks I'm s-some kinda . . . Lothario or something."  
  
"Have you really been that long without . . . you know," Steve asked hesitantly. "I would 've thought . . ."  
  
"Then you thought wrong," Gary murmured, his face taking on a definite scarlet hue. "I don't play 'musical beds.' I-it has to mean something or it's just . . . wrong for me. Can we change the subject? Please? I-I'd kinda like to keep my personal life . . . well, personal, if you know what I mean."   
  
He didn't want to talk about that night when, suffering from a head injury, he had been forced to let Toni Brigatti 'look after' him. The night that she had . . . Was 'seduced' the right word? He wasn't sure.  
  
"I wish we could," Paul sighed. "But it seems that your 'personal life' is why this guy is gunning for you. We have to analyze every aspect of it."  
  
Gary covered his face with his left hand and groaned. This promised to be a very embarrassing discussion.  
  
***********  
  
Paul finally relented in his interrogation long enough for Gary to eat his supper in peace. For security's sake, the detective insisted that it had to be prepared in McGinty's kitchen and sent up. Carlos, the new chef, prepared a sumptuous Mexican dinner for all four men of Chimichangas, enchiladas, refried beans, and a salad. He topped it off with fried ice cream.   
  
As the others ate with gusto Gary just picked at his meal, his own appetite dampened by the day's events. The fact that his eyes were still a little irritated was no help at all. He couldn't even have a beer to wash the food down because of the pain medicine!  
  
"I just don't understand any of this," Gary sighed as he poked at his dessert with his spoon. "I know a lot of people with accents. None of 'em have any daughters, sisters, or girlfriends I've even considered dating! Not that I know of, anyway. I mean . . . I do look! I haven't gone blind, lately. I'm just . . . just not exactly . . . looking . . . anymore," he finished lamely.  
  
"Not even for fun?" Jason asked. "Just someone to kick back with and relax?"  
  
"I just got out of a wheelchair a coupla months ago," Gary snorted humorlessly. "Most of my time's been spent trying to get back on my feet. Literally!" He pushed his plate away with a sigh. "The majority of the women I've seen over the past year have been either nurses, technicians, or some kind of therapist. Trust me, the prettiest, wittiest, most intelligent woman in the world loses her appeal when she comes at you with something she wants to stick up your . . . somewhere!"  
  
The other three men winced in sympathy.   
  
"I just realized something," Paul murmured. "Tomorrow is the fifteenth. In less than a week, it'll be one year, to the day, since you fell down those stairs."  
  
Gary gave the Chicago detective a bleak look. "You could've gone another year without bringing that up," he grumbled. "Just don't expect me to be throwing any parties to celebrate the event."  
  
"How about to celebrate being alive?" Steve asked. "Beats the hell out of the alternative."  
  
"There was a time," Gary murmured, as he rose from his stool, "that I wasn't so sure. You guys wanna pop in a tape, or something? I've got some old Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart movies."  
  
"Have you got 'Rear Window?'" Curtis asked. "I've never seen that one."  
  
Eager for any distraction, Gary looked over his collection. Yes, he had 'Rear Window,' and 'Casablanca,' which Steve asked for. He was surprised to find that one. It was one of his dad's favorites. He must've left it there the last time they stayed over.  
  
"Great!" he said as he handed the tapes to Steve. "This is what I really need. No more talk about killers or digs at my personal life. Just kick back, watch a coupla classics, and relax. We can worry tomorrow. Right?"  
  
***************  
  
Gary tossed and turned on his new mattress and sheets. The new bed linens felt stiff and scratchy. He hadn't thought to run them through the washer and dryer before Jason prepared his bed. The mattress itself was a little too firm for his liking. With a sigh, Gary tossed the covers aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. It was no use. His shoulder was throbbing like a sore tooth, as was the gash on his arm, and his eyes and face still itched. Also his throat felt raw from the tiny bit of pepper spray that he had inhaled. Maybe some water would help, or some juice. He thought there was still some apple juice in the fridge. His bare feet made soft slapping noises on the hardwood floor as he padded his way to the tiny kitchenette.   
  
"You okay, Gary?" Curtis asked in concern. He had moved the rollaway bed so that it blocked the front door to the loft. The faint sound of Gary's footsteps had brought him to instant alertness.  
  
"Just fine," Gary sighed. "Little thirsty. You want something?"  
  
"Naw," the Marine sighed. "Thanks for asking, though. What about Steve?"  
  
Quietly, Gary padded around to where the other man had positioned another cot across the rear exit. Steve was resting quietly, even making soft snoring sounds. Still, any attempt to open the door from the outside would be enough to rouse him to wakefulness.   
  
Satisfied that his new friend was sleeping soundly, Gary returned to the kitchenette to get his drink. He paused, his left hand on the door handle to the refrigerator. Maybe what he needed was some warm milk? That usually helped him get to sleep. Working as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb his 'roommates,' Gary heated the milk. An easy task made difficult by having only one hand and the faint light from the window to work with. He winced every time something clinked or clattered.  
  
With a weary sigh, Jason Curtis arose from his cot to see what Gary was doing.  
  
"Can't sleep?" he murmured.  
  
"It itches," Gary replied, waving his hand at his eyes. "And the bed feels . . . strange. I was hoping this would help.  
  
"Why didn't you ask me for something?" Jason snorted softly, mindful of the man sleeping just down the short hall. "I've got this small pharmacy with me, remember?"  
  
"I don't like taking drugs," Gary grumbled. "Never have."   
  
"If you need something, though . . ." Jason tried to reason.  
  
"Jason," Gary sighed, "from the moment I first woke up after 'The Accident,' they had to keep me so pumped full of drugs, I was thrilled to have a lucid moment. They kept it up until I pitched a fit and told them not to bring anything unless I asked for it. And to tell me exactly what they were giving me, and what it was for. The first few days after that were . . . bad." He paused to sip at his milk, his eyes staring off into not so distant memories. "Withdrawal was . . . I don't know how I did it, but I think I managed to keep my family and friends from seeing . . . what I was going through. Th-the hunger a-and the . . . the need! Before it was over, I thought I was losing my mind. Next to that, the pain was nothing. I think that was why the second time, after Savalas . . . th-the depression hit me so hard. Knowing that, not only was I reduced to having people I'd have to look at for days, weeks possibly, do even the most basic, demeaning things, but I was going to have go through . . . I just wanted to die and get it over with." Another sip, as he tried to marshal his thoughts. "This last time, as soon as I was able to talk, I made it clear. No morphine. Under no circumstances. Nothing stronger than Toradol. And only as I needed it. Really needed it."  
  
Jason nodded in understanding. "That's why you're having so much trouble sleeping," he sighed. "Between the pain, itching, and what amounts to a strange bed, you can hardly close your eyes."  
  
"That pretty much sums it up," Gary murmured quietly. He took a big gulp of his milk. It was starting to cool. "I can't afford to go down that path, Jason. It's a dead-end street. The kinda things I have to do . . . they require a clear head at the best of times. I can't allow myself the . . . the luxury of falling apart. Too many people are depending on me, whether they know it or not."  
  
"Toradol," Jason mused. He turned for his kit, spying Steve standing by the corner of the short hallway. How much had the other man overheard, he wondered? "I may have some of that, and some Benadril for the itching. It might make you drowsy, too."  
  
"Nothing real strong," Gary told him. "I don't wanna sleep through my alarm."  
  
"Over-the-counter strength only," Curtis assured him as the young Marine rummaged through his bag. "You have to get some rest, Gary, or you can't function. Here you go. One Toradol and two Benadril. Wash them down with the rest of that milk and it'll spread the effect a little. Not quite the same as an empty stomach that way."  
  
Gary took the tablet and two capsules, eyeing them doubtfully. He knew Jason was right. He had to get some sleep. Still . . . With a sigh, he tossed the medication to the back of his throat, chasing them down with several swallows of the now lukewarm milk. Rinsing the glass out, he placed it in the drainer. He was about to do the same with the pan he had used to heat the milk when Jason took him by the elbow and turned him toward the bed.  
  
"I'll take care of that," the young sergeant promised. "You get back to bed. Try counting sheep, or whatever. But keep your eyes closed until that alarm goes off."  
  
Gary grumbled something that sounded like 'Yes, Mother,' as he shuffled obediently back to his bed. By the time Jason had finished straightening up, the antihistamine in the Benadril had taken effect. Gary was curled up on his left side, snoring softly into his pillow.  
  
"The more I learn about this guy," Steve murmured, "the more he amazes me. How many people do you know that would willingly put themselves through the hell of morphine withdrawal? I've been shot a time or two, myself," he added. "I know the kind of pain he's in. My dad had to wean me off the morphine over about a month's time. From the sound of it, he had to say where to draw the line himself."  
  
"That happens, sometimes," Jason whispered. "Doctors don't want their patient to suffer, so they start the pain meds before the poor guy even wakes up. If the injury is bad enough, they may start 'em out with a pretty hefty dose. I think that's what happened to Gary. His doctor may have meant well, but he should've consulted with his patient."  
  
************  
  
The next few days were fairly quiet and uneventful. Even the Paper seemed to sense that the young Guardian needed time to recuperate. What few 'errands' he had were minor and easy to handle. This left him with plenty of time, however, to think about his attacker. He was gradually able to recall a few details, such as his height and build. The brief glimpse he'd had just before being blinded, was of a rather tall man, about his own height, and slender. Gary was pretty sure he had been wearing a dark, hooded jogging suit.  
  
Other than those minor details, they had nothing new to go on. Gary was able to rejoin rehearsals, and keep his appointment with Dr. Griner in peace. He was even able to get fitted for his tuxedo. Diane had given him a pointed reminder that her wedding was only a few weeks away. He had better not wait until the last minute! Gary had wryly suggested that Steve and Jason might want to do the same. In case they were still hanging around on the big day.  
  
"Don't mess up Diane's wedding," he warned them. "She's been planning this for the last six months and is not above taking the hide off anyone who screws it up."  
  
At the same time, Gary eyed his calendar with growing apprehension. Not just because of the approaching wedding. A somewhat more significant date had captured his attention ever since Paul had mentioned it. The one-year anniversary of his fateful tumble was looming over him like a black cloud. Over the last few months, as his body had regained its strength and mobility, he had managed to put that particular demon to rest . . . for a time. Now, thanks, in part, to Armstrong's passing comment, the dreams were back. So were the flashbacks. All of them.  
  
"I go into my office," he told Dr. Griner with a weary sigh, "and I see them working over my . . . my body. Only I'm not . . . not breathing. On the stairs, there's blood. Gallons of it. I can't use the Jacuzzi anymore because I keep . . . keep hearing . . . hearing him sneaking up behind me. Every time I see a gun, or someone rattles a chain, it's like . . . suddenly I can't breathe! I had to go to the zoo, yesterday. W-went by the R-reptile House. A rattlesnake s-started . . . ya know? Almost gave me a heart attack! A-at Lincoln Park today, I found myself at that . . . that same pier. There w-was this kid. He, um, he fell off wh-while I w-was watching. For just a second . . . I froze. I went in. I did! But . . . what if I can't the next time? What happens when these . . . these waking nightmares become too 'real' to ignore? What do I do?"  
  
The genuine anguish in his patient's voice got to William Griner as nothing had in years. It reminded him, all too vividly of when the initial shock had worn off. When he had to wonder: What was he going to do with the rest of his life?  
  
"You look it square in the eye," he said, "and you do the best you can. You've already learned, the hard way, that this special 'gift' of yours carries no guarantee of success. Yet, you go out, every single day, prayin' for the strength, and the courage, to at least try. Has a day ever passed that that prayer wasn't answered? You've admitted that heights make you dizzy, that you're afraid of fallin'. Yet, how many times have you stood on some narrow ledge, leaned over the railing of some bridge, jumped or crawled from one rooftop to another in order to save someone's life? Don't doubt yourself, Gary. Use your fear the same way everyone else does. To stay alert, and alive."  
  
Dr. Griner reached up and felt for the STOP button on his CD recorder. Switching the machine off, he turned back to Gary.  
  
"Enough of the therapy," he said with a grin. "How are you feelin' otherwise? Shoulder still botherin' ya?"  
  
"Some," Gary admitted with a careful shrug. "But I'm still able to workout on the treadmill, and Diane has given me an exercise regimen to follow as soon as I can ditch the sling. She thinks I'll be as good as new, or at least close enough, in time to walk her down the aisle."  
  
"That is one determined young woman," Dr. Griner nodded, his smile spreading even wider. "I have to wonder if her young man knows what he's gettin' into."  
  
"If he doesn't," Gary replied with a grin of his own, "he'll be finding out in about three weeks."  
  
*************  
  
Opening night of the play was finally scheduled for May 22nd. Rehearsals were intensified in anticipation of the big day. Gary once again found himself the focus of motherly concern from every female in the production. Even the guys fussed a little. After all, his character, while not the star, was pivotal to the plot! May 20th was set aside for their final rehearsal, giving them one day to relax before the frenzy of opening night.  
  
May 20th. Gary was wide-awake long before the alarm went off. In fact, he had not been able to sleep after 2 AM, the approximate hour that the accident had occurred. That bizarre dream, hallucination, whatever he had experienced immediately after his fall had pushed its way rather forcefully to the front of his mind. He found himself reliving it in vivid detail. Then came the hour when he had found himself, still lying on the stairs, the top of the footstool digging into his spine, listening to the steady drip of his own blood as it mingled with the growing pool covering the steps. Shortly after, his mind was assailed by the frantic activity that had gone into keeping him alive long enough for the ambulance to arrive, the heartbreaking sobs when his parents were told that he was . . . gone. Everything after that was hazy, as if he were not meant to remember what had happened . . . 'beyond.' He recalled, in gruesome detail, waking up to pain. An all-encompassing pain that didn't extend below his hips. Although it should have.   
  
With a sigh, Gary turned to look at his clock radio. 4:56 AM. The moment of his 'rebirth.' For the thousandth time, he wondered why. Why was he 'sent back?' Why was he not warned of the accident in the first place? Had it truly been one of those things that had to happen? Or was he finding himself to be a pawn in some cosmic chess game? If he had not listened to the specter of Lucius Snow in that derelict building so long ago, would his 'career' have ended there, along with his life? Tossing back the covers, Gary levered himself up to sit on the side of his bed. It was no use. He wasn't going to be able to sleep anymore. He might just as well go ahead and start the coffee. The way he felt, that would be all that kept him going for the rest of the day.  
  
As he waited for the coffee to brew, Gary went over the events of the past year in his mind. Not just what had happened, but what might have happened. Little Elliot would have died in that snow bank. What effect might that have had on his grieving parents? That boy at the pier. Would he have been in danger at all if he had not been tormenting Gary? Certainly Bernie wouldn't have been put at risk. The airliner would have crashed, either in Denver or Colorado Springs, killing Amanda's father and over two hundred others. The 'Stargate' program would've suffered a major setback. How many would've died there? What could it have meant to the safety of the whole planet? Dr. Sloan and Steve would have died from the bite of a venomous reptile. Jean Phillips would've had no one to console her when she needed it most, running off by herself as she had. What might she have done in her fit of despair? No, however you looked at it, a lot of good had come out of his suffering. So . . . so maybe it was worth it. As long as he could look at things in that light, he could live with it.  
  
As soon as the coffee was ready, Gary fixed a cup, taking it and strolling toward the back door. Two pinpoints of red gleamed at him as he stood in the short hallway. The new security system was state-of-the-art. It required a palm print to open it from the outside. His. It even had a battery back up in case of a power failure. A similar arrangement was on the front door of the loft, and linked to the windows. If a pigeon landed on his windowsill, someone would know about it. The scanner on the inner door was keyed to his, Marissa's and his parent's palm prints. The theory was, if he became ill or injured, it helped if someone else had access. Especially since the rippled glass of his door had been replaced with a new substance that, while identical to the old panel, was bulletproof and shatterproof. It also was impervious to any blade short of a laser drill. The same had been done to his windows. The whole installation had taken less than a day; with another day of testing to be sure it was working properly.   
  
It saddened him, driving the point home, more than anything else, that someone hated him enough to make these precautions necessary. What had he done to this person? Who was it that he wanted Gary to stay away from? None of it made any sense!   
  
"Still having trouble sleeping?"  
  
Gary turned to find Jason sitting up on the sofa/sleeper, watching him with concern. Steve was still sound asleep on his cot by the door.  
  
"Some," he admitted, finally answering the murmured question. "I guess it's just hitting me. A year ago today, at this very minute, they still weren't sure if I was gonna make it. Now, someone wants to make sure that I don't. Kind of a sad commentary on my life, ya know?" He finished his cup and returned to the counter for a refill. "I was just thinking that it would help if I just had some idea as to why this person hates me so much! I mean, it's not like I've never ticked anyone off before. Just . . . what 've I done that was worth killing over?"  
  
"You mean aside from saving a president's life?" Curtis asked. "Or the lives of two men vital to a certain covert operation? Thwarting bank robberies and terrorists? Defusing hostage situations and foiling kidnappers? What about uncovering murder-for-hire schemes? Or . . ."  
  
"Okay, okay," Gary sighed. "I get the picture, already. But none of that applies here! This guy clearly wants me to back off from someone, only I don't know who! Or even why." He set his cup down, blowing his breath out with a frustrated huff. "I don't even know if the person he's angry about is interested in me. It could be that she just said something to make him jealous. You know what I mean? Some girl just saying to her boyfriend, 'Why can't you be more like him?' Not realizing that I'm no prize, either," he added bitterly.  
  
"Why are you so down on yourself this morning?" Jason asked. "Is it because of what day it is?"  
  
"Partly," Gary admitted ruefully. "And partly because of opening night, soon. Stage fright, I guess. Plus I'm wondering why this bozo hasn't done anything over the last coupla days, and what he's gonna do next. All those digs at my social life, or lack thereof, didn't help, either. I-I just feel like my whole life is slipping away and it never really amounted to anything."  
  
"Excuse me?" Steve murmured, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Did I just hear you right? I could've sworn you just said you never amounted to anything! How many lives have you saved? Not all together. Just in the last coupla years." Gary just gazed dejectedly down at his cup, unable to meet Steve's incredulous gaze. "You honestly have no idea, do you? You've saved so many, you can't even count 'em! What would it take to give your life meaning?"  
  
"A wife," Gary murmured without hesitation. "Someone who loves me as much as I love her. Kids. Just one or two. I'm not greedy. Picnics in the park, ballgames, flying kites. Being a good husband and father. Passing on my values to someone that will remember me when I'm gone. Hopefully with fondness, and love. I-it's asking a lot, I know, but that's all I ever wanted out of life. All that ever mattered."  
  
Steve and Jason exchanged shamefaced looks. What could they say to that?  
  
************  
  
Gary had already bathed and dressed by the time the paper arrived. He opened the door to see the cat staring off down the stairs, as if he had heard something.  
  
"Hey, fella," Gary murmured, scratching the watchful feline behind the ears before grabbing the Paper. "Whatcha starin' at, hmm?" The cat just looked up at him with a decisive 'quirrr' before padding his way to the kitchenette and his food dish. Gary had already emptied a can of Fancy Feast Tuna into the bowl. Not his favorite, but a little variety never hurt.  
  
Gary scanned the headlines quickly, while the other two were preoccupied with their own morning rituals. There were just a few traffic fatalities to prevent, a robbery at a convenience mart, and a toddler wandering too close to an open storm drain. All of these took place well before he was supposed to report for rehearsal.  
  
For once, everything went off without a hitch. He grabbed the toddler seconds before the child would have fallen, giving the squalling child back to his mother, then sped off to prevent two kids from getting hit by a man running late for an appointment. The robbery turned out to be a prank that could have turned deadly. The so-called 'robbers' were friends of the new clerk, a teenager on his first job. The last errand was preventing a woman from getting hit by a beer truck while chasing after her escaped pooch. All in all, not a bad day's work.  
  
"They should all be this easy," Steve chuckled as he handed the leash back to the extremely attractive young woman. She smiled her thanks, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as she slipped a scrap of paper into his hand. As she hurried away, Steve smiled. She had given him her phone number.  
  
"You wish!" Gary snorted. He had double-checked the Paper while the other two were distracted. Nothing new had resulted because of anything he had done so far. With any luck, it also meant that nothing would change before the night was over.  
  
********  
  
Everyone milled around nervously, at first, each one checking the others over to make sure they had their costumes on correctly. Since the play was set in the fifties, they were fitted with clothing popular to that era. The only 'modern' article of clothing was the sling which still encased Gary's right arm.  
  
"Now," Bonnie was saying. "This time we're going to go through the whole play without stopping for anything but scenery changes. Are you up to it?" She looked around at the ring of expectant faces, her gaze lingering on Gary, his sling in particular. He just smiled and gave her a 'thumbs up.' No one said anything, but several others nodded excitedly. "Great! Places, everyone, for the opening scene."  
  
The first scene, where 'Vic' and 'Angelique' entered in the midst of a heated argument and ended with the victim being shot by an unknown assailant, went smoothly. Gary picked himself up from the other side of the fake 'window' with Jason's assistance. It was while the sets were being rearranged by the stagehands that Gary noticed something odd about one of them.  
  
"See that guy in the blue coveralls?" he said to his bodyguards. "The tall one with the black hair. He keeps turning his head away whenever I look at him, but I'm almost certain I've seen him somewhere before."  
  
"Maybe he works here," Jason suggested, although he, too, thought the man was behaving suspiciously. "You could've seen him hanging around, sweeping up, whatever."  
  
"I don't think so," Gary murmured, trying not to look at the man directly. "Denny and Mitch are the only ones that work here on a regular basis. These other guys have all been hired to work on this play. I just wish I knew why he looks so familiar!"  
  
"I'll talk to Oscar about him," Steve told them. "See if he knows anything about this guy. In the meantime, keep your eye on him."  
  
Gary simply nodded, unwilling to trust his voice at that moment. He had a terrible feeling crawling up and down his spine. That feeling he got whenever disaster was about to strike. After checking the Paper for the third time with no change, he looked over to where Paul Armstrong and Toni Brigatti were just taking their seats in the center section, along with several friends of his fellow cast mates, and his parents. They were mostly there as a 'test audience.' He and Toni had exchanged a cautious, if chilly, greeting earlier. Gary was still uncertain exactly where he stood with the fiery Italian.  
  
Elaine tried to put him at ease, reminding him that it was just amateur theater, not Broadway. There was no need for him to be so tense.  
  
"That's easy for you to say," Gary replied with a good-natured, if strained, grin. "Maybe I'm being stalked by the 'critic from hell,'" he quipped. "When he says 'thumbs down,' he's not kiddin' around! Thanks for tryin' to cheer me up, though." Without thinking, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.  
  
Blushing furiously, Elaine ducked her head to hide her rising color. Flashing her handsome cast mate a shy smile, she hurried to her next mark.  
  
The next scene went as well as the first, as did the third. Gary was beginning to think he was just having a bad case of the jitters. He was standing off in the wings, nervously going over his script as the scenery was being set up for the next Act, when it occurred to him to check the Paper one more time. He had just found the article, 'Off Broadway Mayhem,' when something struck him behind his right ear with stunning force! Dazed, he dimly heard someone cry out in alarm as he sank to his knees. Before he could fall any farther, a lean, muscular arm clamped itself around his throat, choking him! At the same moment, something sharp was pressing into the right side of his neck, just below the angle of his jaw!  
  
"Drop it!" Jason snapped, his automatic pistol out and covering Gary's shadowy attacker.  
  
"No!" the strangely familiar voice growled. "I tol' heem! Stay away! Now, he must die!"  
  
"S-stay away from who?" Gary grunted, his left hand tugging ineffectually at the arm pressing into his windpipe. "At l-least tell, unh, tell me that!"  
  
"You know of who I speak!" the voice hissed angrily. "The woman you have dishonored! The one you have shamed with your very existence!"  
  
"Just drop the knife," Steve said calmly, trying to reason with the man. "Give us a chance to get to the bottom of this."  
  
The only answer was a sharp pain as the knifepoint penetrated the skin of Gary's throat. He felt something warm trickle down the side of his neck. The pressure on his windpipe increased as his assailant forced him to stand, dragging him backwards. The movement caused the razor-sharp point to jiggle, doing even more damage to the all too vulnerable flesh of Gary's neck. The trickle was turning into a stream. Dimly, he could hear his mother's frightened, angry voice as someone apparently held her back. Strangely, the first thought that crossed his mind was, 'Dear God! Not in front of my parents!'  
  
"Wh-who did I 'd-dishonor?'" he murmured, trying to speak without moving his jaw. "I-if I gotta d-die for it, I deserve . . . deserve to know that much!"  
  
"That's far enough!"  
  
The unseen figure roughly spun his hostage around, using him as a shield against this new foe. Gary felt the knife slip, doing only God knew what to the soft tissues of his throat! He felt an odd churning quiver in his stomach that heralded unpleasant possibilities.  
  
"Put it down," Crumb said, his eyes fixed on the man hiding behind his younger friend, and not on the widening ribbon of scarlet coursing down over the blade of the stiletto. He slowing eased forward, forcing his opponent onto the lighted stage. "Whatever beef you got with Hobson, it ain't worth killin' over."  
  
"L-listen to the man," Gary squeaked. "H-he kn-knows what he . . . he's talkin' about!"  
  
"Vincenzo?"   
  
The startled exclamation burst from two sets of feminine vocal cords. Stunned Brigatti and Elaine looked at each other as the tiny detective scrambled onto the stage, Armstrong right behind her.  
  
Gary's captor spun around again at the sudden cry, still using his hostage as a shield. Gary fought not to pass out. A chill sweat broke out on his forehead as his knees threatened to buckle. At the same time, he was struggling to contain his rising gorge. How much blood had he lost already?   
  
"Y-you do that . . . o-one more time," he rasped apprehensively, "I'm g-gonna hurl."  
  
"Antonia!" the rough voice exclaimed, ignoring Gary for the moment. "Go back to you seat! You. too, Elena! Thees is a matter of honor!"  
  
"In a pig's ear!" Toni snapped. "Put that knife down! What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
"No! He must pay for what he deed to you!" Vincenzo snarled. "And for toying with the heart of the one I love!"  
  
Gary hesitantly raised his left hand, trying not to move anything else in hopes of keeping the bloodshed to a minimum. His blood, in particular.   
  
"Um, s'cuse me," he murmured in a hoarse croak. "A-as the, um, d-defendant here, c-could I ask j-just one question? Wh-what was I supposed to've done?"  
  
"It doesn't matter," Toni snapped, a little too quickly. What did she know about all this? "Put the freakin' knife down, Vincenzo! Put it down now! Before one of us has to shoot you!"  
  
"I-I'm with her on this, Vincenzo," Gary stammered nervously. "Why don't you unh!"  
  
"Silencio!" the irate Italian ordered, digging the blade a little deeper. Gary was sure he felt it scrape bone that time. "You have, how you say? You have crossed our familia too much! First, the treasure of Capone, then you dishonor our cousin, Antonia! Then . . . then you make eyes at my Elena! You keesed her! My betrothed!"  
  
Capone? Cousin? Gary now recalled where he had seen Vincenzo before. He and his brother, Marco? Rico? Something like that. They had almost killed him and an overzealous Treasury agent while looking for the legendary treasure of Al Capone's 'vault.' This was the first he had ever suspected that the brothers were in any way related to Toni Brigatti! And where did Elaine come into the picture? Then it hit him. The article appeared after he had kissed her!  
  
"I'm getting very confused here," he murmured. "Vincenzo, put the knife down. Please? Let's at least try to talk this over li-urk!"   
  
"I tell you to be silent!" Vincenzo growled menacingly, his powerful arm choking the life from his prisoner. "You have toyed with my cousin's heart, dishonored her. You have even used the one who brings light to my darkness to cause her pain! For that, you must die!"  
  
"He dies," Curtis responded coolly, "you die. Before he hits the floor. Put the knife down, now." The young Marine had a .9 mm automatic centered on the bridge of Vincenzo's nose. "I'm not playin' around here, pal. I will kill you."  
  
The arm squeezing Gary's throat tightened, wringing a choked grunt from the prisoner. "H-he's not k-kidding," he gasped. "H-he'll . . ." The arm tightened again, cutting off his words.  
  
"Drop you weapons," Vincenzo snarled, "or I keel heem, now!"  
  
"Vincenzo," Elaine said in a pleading tone. "If you truly care for me, if you honestly love me, put the knife down. These people will kill you if you don't!"  
  
"If they do not drop their guns," Vincenzo snarled, "I keel heem where he stands!"  
  
"Um, Vinnie?" Gary squeaked. "Th-that's why you're here? Remember? You kinda . . . kinda lose your b-bargaining power . . . wh-when you state up front th-that the h-hostage is t-toast."  
  
It took a moment for that to sink in. Slowly, the blade was withdrawn from Gary's throat. There was an immediate increase in blood flow down his neck. Gary reached up with his left hand, intending to try to stop the bleeding, only to have the arm tighten painfully across his windpipe!  
  
"Be still!" his captor hissed. "You may yet die this night!"  
  
"Wh-what have I done that was so terrible?" Gary rasped painfully. "And please don't keep giving me that 'honor' stuff! Get specific! Toni, what've you been telling this guy?"  
  
"Nothing!" Brigatti snapped. "I haven't even seen this guy since . . . Wait a minute." Her eyes narrowed, taking on a dangerous gleam. "Vincenzo. Were you guys eavesdropping again?"  
  
The arm tightened even more as the Italian shrugged. "How else are we to know what you do here?" he asked. "You no tell, so we must be spies to learn what our cousin is doing in America!"  
  
Gary's ears were starting to ring as he struggled for breath. "Air!" he gasped. "N-need . . . air!"  
  
Startled, the swarthy man looked down at the blood-drenched arm clamped tightly about his captive's throat, as if just remembering what he was doing. "S'cusi," he murmured, finally relinquishing his hold.   
  
The others moved in quickly. Paul snatched the knife from the Italian's hand while Steve hauled out a pair of cuffs. Jason had moved to catch Gary as the other man half collapsed, drawing air into his tortured lungs in a wheezing gasp! The young Marine clamped a hand to the side of Gary's neck, trying to staunch the steady flow of blood from the not so tiny wound, as he eased the breathless man to the floor. Using a clean handkerchief to keep direct pressure on the wound, he gently cradled the injured man's head in his lap.   
  
"Man!" Jason hissed after a quick examination. "I think he tore your jugular!"  
  
"Th-that's bad, isn't it?" Gary rasped. He was still dizzy from being half strangled, and from the increasing blood loss.   
  
"It ain't good," the medic agreed. He took the first aid kit from Oscar and quickly tore open a thick packet of gauze squares. These he used to replace his saturated handkerchief. "Don't try to talk. Steve! We need an ambulance! Pronto!"  
  
The LA detective was way ahead of him. Steve was already giving the dispatcher their location. "Ten minutes," he reported. "That's the quickest they can get here. The nearest crew is just finishing up a run."   
  
Jason just nodded in reply. He looked up briefly when Lois and Bernie knelt close by, wanting to be of assistance, but wisely letting the more experienced sergeant handle things. Still keeping a steady pressure on the torn vessel, he gingerly probed the swelling where the disgruntled cousin had struck Gary's head. While his gentle touch brought a hiss of pain, he was sure that the skull was still intact.  
  
"How bad is it?" Lois asked anxiously.  
  
"He's gonna be fine," Jason murmured. To Gary, he cautioned, "Just hold still."  
  
"I-I wanna b-be there," Gary rasped. "Wh-when they question him. W-wanna hear . . . wh-why."  
  
"You will," Jason assured him. "Don't talk," he repeated. "It makes it harder to control the bleeding." He looked up to where Brigatti was pacing back and forth, her hands clasped to either side of her head. She looked like she had developed a migraine.  
  
"I can't believe this," Toni was grumbling. "My own cousin! By marriage, thank God! Aw, man! What'm I gonna tell Aunt Christina? She'll have a coronary!" She directed her ire at her scowling cousin. "Where do you get off defending my honor?" she snapped. "What's it to you, anyway? You an' Rico, the two of you were deported a coupla years ago! You shouldn't even be in this country! What's with the 'honor' thing anyway? You bozos think I can't take care o' myself? Against him?" She flung her hand out in a flamboyant gesture aimed at Gary, who shot her an insulted look. "Of all the stupid, idiotic, asinine, Sicilian things to do! And you're from outside Milano! You don't even have the excuse of being Sicilian!"  
  
In the midst of this tirade, Jason leaned his head down so that he could hear Gary's mumbled question. The young Marine had already added another thick gauze pad to the compress, and the blood was still oozing.   
  
"Gary wants to know what started this," the sergeant relayed. "Exactly what is it that he's supposed to have done?"  
  
"Nothin'!" the fiery Italian detective snarled. "This idiot just took a-a tiny little . . . it wasn't even a complaint! J-just me venting off a little steam! And this . . . this cousin turns it into a vendetta! Aunt Christina is gonna skin you alive! After I get through with you!"  
  
"Quit dodgin' the question!" Crumb snapped. "What exactly have you been tellin' the folks back home, Brigatti?"   
  
"I-it was nothin'!" Brigatti squirmed. "I just told Aunt Christina that I was feeling a little . . . taken for granted. L-like he was usin' me to hedge his bets!"  
  
"And when did you tell her this?" Armstrong asked, giving her a dangerous look.  
  
"Wh-when I went to visit her last summer," the tiny Italian shrugged uncomfortably. "Last June. I was there for Grandpa Vito's funeral. Look, can we discuss this privately? After we get Hobson patched up?"  
  
Absorbed in the scene, Jason was startled by a tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he saw Gary crooking a finger at him. Obediently, he inclined his head so the injured man could whisper something in his ear, only to straighten a moment later with a dry chuckle.  
  
"Gary says he seconds that motion," he reported to the crowd.  
  
************  
  
"I can't believe you were accusing me of neglect," Gary rasped hoarsely. He was sitting up in the same hospital bed that he had just left a little over a week before. A thick bandage covered the wound in his badly bruised throat, which had taken several stitches to close. "Y-you came t-to visit me . . . one time th-that whole month before your trip! In 'n' out. 'Hey! How ya doin'? Gotta run!' T-two minutes, you were here! Then nothin'! N-not even a phone call! I didn't even know you'd gone . . . to Italy 'til Winslow t-told me!"  
  
"Well," Toni grumble irritably, "with all your old girlfriends hangin' around, I figured you didn't have time for me."  
  
"What girlfriends?" Gary asked. "As-side from you, the only women who came to . . . to visit me were Mom, Marissa, a-and Amanda Bailey's mom! And the girls that work for me. A-all of whom are either married o-or engaged! Look, Toni," he sighed, his good hand massaging his throat under the bandages, "w-we've had a rocky . . . relationship even b-before my accident. After . . . that was . . . you seemed more secure when I was . . . was at my lowest! I-I don't know what it is you want!"  
  
"A little romance woulda been nice," the tiny detective shrugged as she paced near the foot of his bed. "Flowers now an' then. A candlelit dinner, maybe. Something to at least give me a hint as to where we were going!"  
  
"I was in the hospital!" Gary replied in a frustrated croak. "I c-couldn't walk and m-my hands were b-badly burned. What was I s'pposed to do? Hit the call button w-with my nose and ask the nurses to round me up wine, r-roses, a-and a romantic dinner so that you could s-spoon feed me?"  
  
One corner of Toni's mouth turned up in a wistful smile at the image his words invoked. "That could've been fun," she admitted.   
  
"A-and when was I s-s'pposed to arrange . . . all this?" he rasped, irked by her amusement. "You n-never came by, or . . . or answered my calls. Have you any idea how f-frustrating it was, having my m-mom dialing your number over a-and over again, and all I ever got was . . . was your machine? W-with her sitting there, holding the phone up to . . . to my ear, what kinda m-message was I s'pposed to leave?"  
  
"Um, I see you point," she murmured, wincing at the image. "Kind of . . . embarrassing?"  
  
"Toni," Gary sighed, "this whole year has . . . has redefined th-that word in ways that defy th-the imagin . . . imagination." He lay his head back carefully. All the talking was irritating his throat, and any sudden movement tugged at his stitches. "My life has hit lows you can't even conceive of," he murmured tiredly. "Wh-which really isn't fair, since you . . .you've had a hand in some of the w-worst."  
  
Toni sauntered over to perch on the edge of the seat by the window. "Oh, c'mon! It really hasn't been that bad! Has it?"  
  
"Where were you when I wanted to kill myself?" he asked her bluntly, his voice hoarse with more than just pain now. "Wh-when it hurt to just . . . just think about facing one more day a-as an invalid. Of having to be poked and p-prodded on a daily b-basis. O-of being s-stripped and bathed l-like an infant. N-not being able to walk, o-or to feed myself, or c-clean myself, or even push the damned call button when I needed h-help! When th-the agony of morphine with . . . withdrawal was ripping my insides to sh-shreds! Where were you when I couldn't get t-two words out of my m-mouth without sounding l-like Porky Pig! Where were you when the p-people of my home town, people I've known all my life started t-treating me like a-a pariah? When it got to the . . . the point that I just wanted to drop off the face of the Earth a-and die!" he added bitterly. "Where were you, Toni? Where were you wh-when I needed you?"  
  
Biting her lower lip, Toni stared down at her clasped hands. Her face had gone deathly pale as he rattled off his list of grievances and torments. All trace of her usual mocking defensiveness slipped away as she considered his words.  
  
"I guess I'm a fine one to talk about neglect, aren't I?" she murmured. "No one . . . no one said it was that bad. Th-that you were hurting like that."  
  
"Would it 've mattered?" Gary croaked, his tone still one of pain and barely controlled anger. "You saw how I was when . . . when you . . . we . . . a-and you took full advantage of it! Had everything just the way you wanted it! That was . . . that was the worst, you know? The lowest, knowing that I was nothing more to you than . . . than a piece of meat! An amusement! I was praying, Toni! Praying for God to just strike me dead and get it over with! Up to that moment, I thought we had something! Something we could build on, maybe. Now . . ." At this point, his voice failed him completely, having been strained beyond endurance by his emotional outburst.   
  
His voice ended in such a dejected tone, Toni was startled from her contemplation of her hands. Looking up, she tried to think of something to say in response to such a bald statement. The trouble was, she had been harboring the same kind of doubts. What did they have? As long as she had the upper hand everything was fine. The moment he asserted himself, she became defensive, even angry. That revelation made her take a long, hard look at her own motives. Gary wanted someone to share his life with. Was that what she wanted? Did she really want to give up that much control?  
  
"I-I don't have any answers for you," she murmured, looking away. "Seems like there's a lot of things I need to be asking myself. I'd like to think . . . to think we could at least be friends. But we . . . we've got too many . . . issues . . . between us." Abruptly, she leapt to her feet, heading for the door. "I, um, need to sort this out. Try to get things straight in my head." She paused, one hand on the door. "I'm s-sorry . . . about Vincenzo, I mean. I'll see to it that . . . that he can't bother you anymore."  
  
"Bother? Toni, he tried to kill me!" Gary gently reminded her in a strained squeak. Frustrated, he looked around for something to write on. Toni wordlessly handed him her notebook and a pen. 'His fate is out of our hands, now,' he quickly wrote. 'I'm afraid he won't be deported this time. Unless you can work out something with the DA's office, he's in for a long prison sentence.'  
  
"Good God! You're right!" she winced as she translated his hasty, left-handed scrawl. "What is it? Five counts of attempted murder? He could end up spending the rest of his life in prison! Or the next twenty years, at least!" Stunned, she plopped into the chair by the door. "This is gonna kill Aunt Christina!" Toni gave Gary a silent, pleading look.  
  
Gary slowly shook his head, taking back the notebook. 'Don't look at me,' he wrote more carefully. 'You know the law better than I do. If there's any way I can help, though, let me know. I'll do what I can.'  
  
"Are you serious?" she asked incredulously. "After everything he did to you? Why?"  
  
"Because he's your cousin," he croaked with a shrug, wincing as a shaft of pain reminded him why he shouldn't move too quickly. Or talk. With a look of resignation he took back the pad, writing quickly. 'Because I still have feelings for you, however screwed up they may be right now. Or just because life is too short to hold a grudge. Seriously, Toni, I'll do what I can, just don't expect miracles. Your cousin's really screwed up, this time.'  
  
**********  
  
For once, Brigatti left without slamming a door, or verbally cutting Gary off at the knees. Whether it was because she couldn't find a way to make the whole mess his fault, or that she genuinely felt guilty over what had happened, he wasn't sure. And he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, either.   
  
As the door closed behind her, Gary settled back with a sigh. He glanced at the twin IVs running into his left arm. One was normal saline. The other was the second unit of blood he had received since being admitted. Dr. Carter had not been able to resist a quip about Gary running 'a quart low.' By their estimate, he had lost more than just a quart! The razor-sharp stiletto had almost severed his jugular, missing his carotid artery by less than a hair! That would have been the end if that vessel had been cut. He would've been brain dead by the time the ambulance had gotten there!  
  
Shortly after Toni made her quiet exit, Jason poked his head around the edge of the partially open door. Seeing that Gary was awake, he motioned the others in behind him. Steve, Paul, and Gary's parents arranged themselves on either side of the bed. Lois, seeing how pale and drawn he was, immediately put a hand to his forehead. What was it, he wondered, about moms and fevers?  
  
"How're you feeling, sweetie?" she asked in a conciliatory tone.   
  
Gary just made a seesaw motion with his good hand. 'Now I'm reduced to hand gestures,' he mused in frustration. Then Curtis opened up the briefcase he had been carrying, setting up a laptop computer on the tray table and placing it in front of the injured man. Gary spared him a grateful smile as he tapped out his reply. 'I've been better,' he told them.  
  
"Not lately," his dad chuckled, to which Gary responded with a wry grin. "The guy who did this to ya is tryin' to find a good mouthpiece. The DA says it's pretty much an open and shut case. His only hope is that the judge will agree with deportation."  
  
"Which is highly unlikely," Armstrong shrugged. "If it had been one of those 'heat of the moment' things, maybe . . . But five times? No judge in the country will buy that!"  
  
Gary laboriously typed out his response on the keyboard. 'What if I don't press charges?'   
  
"Are you nuts?" Steve asked incredulously. "That lunatic tried to kill you! Why wouldn't you press charges? Aside from the fact it wouldn't do any good, that is. What he did is a felony any way you look at it."  
  
Lying back with a sigh, Gary wracked his brain for a solution. The guy was Toni's cousin. They might not be close, but he had a bad feeling that sending Vincenzo to prison for the rest of his life would not go very far toward healing the breech that now existed between the barkeep and the fiery detective. If, indeed, that wound could ever be healed. Gary had a bad feeling that he and Toni really didn't have much chance of a future together, but he would still like to remain friends if that was possible. Picking out the words one-handed, he offered his only other option.  
  
'Can I speak up for him at the arraignment?' he asked. 'Tell the judge, or whoever, that he got his wires crossed? He thought I was messing with family, and his new fiancée. That can make some guys a little crazy, and Vincenzo wasn't wrapped too tight to begin with.'  
  
Curtis, peering over Gary's shoulder as he typed, gave out a bark of laughter. "You've got that right! The guy is down there, now, trying to find out if he can get an Italian judge," he grinned. "He thinks a pisano will understand better and cut him a break. So far, the closest he's come is an Irishman and a Greek."  
  
"Why would you go to all this trouble for the guy who almost killed you?" Paul asked. "For Brigatti? You do know that she'll find some reason to stop speaking to you before the week is out. She may even try, somehow, to make this out to be your fault."  
  
'Elaine is engaged to him,' Gary typed, choosing to ignore the snide comment. 'Did you know that?'  
  
"We just found out," Lois sighed. "Poor girl. She's devastated that he was the one behind the shooting and everything. Bonnie, Crystal, and Darlene are talking to her now. She met him a little over a year ago, when she was on a tour in Italy. He was driving the tour bus to pay his way through college. He's studying to be an architect."  
  
"He was," Bernie amended with a tight-lipped grin. "If he ends up spendin' the next twenty years in the slammer, he can kiss that goodbye!"  
  
Gary was typing furiously, often backspacing to correct his spelling, or to change what he wanted to say. Finally, he turned the screen around so the others could read it.  
  
'I know he screwed up royally, this time,' he'd written. 'Even worse than pulling a gun on a Treasury Agent. He deserves to be punished, yes. Isn't there some way to do it without destroying the rest of his life? Community service, maybe? Like tutoring in Italian for free. Or helping build youth centers. There has to be something we can do!'  
  
"I'll talk with the DA," Armstrong sighed. "No promises, though. He drew Rachel Stone as the prosecution. She tells me you saved her life a few years ago. Now she sees this as a way to help even the score. I really don't look for her to be cutting any deals."  
  
'Could you try?' Gary asked. 'Please?'  
  
Paul read that final plea and sighed. "Yes," he murmured. "I'll try. Just save what you've written so far to disc, and we'll let her read it. Maybe that will help."  
  
Gary quickly saved his text under a file named 'Clemency,' then typed another message.  
  
'Any word on how soon I can go home?' he asked.  
  
"A few days," Jason told him. "Give that wound a chance to heal some, watch for complications, and get your voice back. You still have to walk that Diane chick down the aisle in a coupla weeks. And she is seriously torqued at this Vincenzo guy for hurting you. Again."  
  
**************  
  
The doctor finally pronounced Gary fit enough to go home by the 25th. He was cautioned not to exert himself and drink plenty of liquids. It was also suggested that something cold, like ice cream or sherbet would help with his sore throat.   
  
Crumb and Darlene had come by the morning after the opening of their play to let him know how everything had gone.  
  
"The audience was packed!" Crumb related enthusiastically. "Chris was a little nervous, takin' over your part, but he did okay. And Crystal had to move up to Elaine's part, 'cause of her backin' out to take care of that psycho who tried t' kill ya. Oscar's kid sister filled in for Crystal"  
  
"It was chaos!" Darlene exclaimed happily. "I don't know how we got through it with so many cast changes, but we did. And the audience loved it! We had three curtain calls and a standing ovation!"  
  
"Sorry I missed it," Gary croaked. "Was that Williams guy in the audience?"  
  
A few days before Vincenzo's assault, Gary had called the casting director and asked him to please come check out Crystal's performance. He had not told his young friend, though, afraid that it would make her too nervous to give it her best.  
  
"He was," Darlene told him with a smile. "He was very impressed with our girl. He thinks she'll be perfect for a small part in a project he's working on. They're still casting, and won't go into production for another month, so it won't interfere with our performances. We only planned on the play running a couple of weeks, anyway. She's so excited! This could be the break she's been praying for!"  
  
"Hope so," Gary rasped. "She's worked hard for this." He swallowed past the tenderness in his throat before continuing. "A-any word from P-Paul?"  
  
"He's talkin' to an old friend of yours," Crumb chuckled. "A judge named Wellborn. He's gonna talk to the Feds and see what he can do to keep that bozo out of prison. He's thinks you're as nuts as Vincenzo for goin' to bat for the guy who tried to kill ya, but he thinks they can work somethin' out. As long as it keeps you from buggin' 'im."  
  
Which Gary readily agreed to. A few days later, he was allowed to go home, as long as he promised to restrict his activities for another week. Jason and Steve assured the doctor that he would do just that. Whether he wanted to or not.  
  
For the next several days, they would not let Gary so much as save a butterfly by himself. It irked him to have to sit on the sidelines, but his two bodyguards were adamant. Even though the stitches came out only three days after he was released, Gary was not allowed to lift anything heavier than his coffee cup.  
  
"We got our orders from Diane," Jason told him. "She made it very clear that nothing was to happen to you. If you aren't there to walk her down the aisle, she will kill both of us."  
  
"She wasn't kidding, either," Steve shuddered. "We screw this up, we'll be looking for postings in the Antarctic. If we move fast enough, we might live long enough to regret it."  
  
**************  
  
Diane stood before the full-length mirror and adjusted the bodice of her gown, smoothing down the flowing white satin material of the skirt. Her bridesmaids plucked at the sleeves, puffing them out just so. Her dark auburn hair was carefully arranged in a swept-back do that cascaded over her right shoulder. The Maid of Honor set the tiara affixed to the veil at the proper angle, letting it trail down Diane's back.   
  
This was it. The Big Day. Nervously, Diane glanced at the dressing room door. Out there, in the cathedral proper, her mother sat with about sixty of her family and closest friends, with an equal number on the groom's side. Diane's mother had balked at having a virtual stranger give her daughter away, at first. Then she'd finally met Gary when he came in to start therapy for his shoulder. His quiet courage, unflagging determination, and boyish charm had won her over long before the end of that first session.   
  
Speaking of Gary, where was he? The music was playing! It was almost time to start! Diane cast another nervous look toward the door. He had still been looking a little pale at the rehearsal dinner the other day. Had he suffered another setback? She earnestly prayed that he hadn't, as much for his sake as her own. He had suffered so much in the single year she had known him, it was about time something good came into his life. In her mind's eye, she could still, all too vividly, recall the day he was first shown the wheelchair that everyone thought would be his main, possibly his only, mode of personal transportation for the rest of his life. How, at first, he had tried to put on a brave face, even cracking a few jokes. Then had come the reaction she had been expecting for a long time. He had stopped in the middle of the room, eyes staring straight ahead at a dismal future, and cried. Quietly, at first, then in heartbreaking sobs of intense grief. As she had gathered him into her arms, he'd wept on her shoulder like a child, clinging to her for the strength to go on. She remembered telling him it was 'okay.' "No," he'd told her, straightening up and drying his eyes. "It's not okay. Not yet. But, it will be." He had been right. Eventually.  
  
The Maid of Honor opened the door at the sound of a hesitant knock, and Diane breathed a sigh of relief. Gary stood there, looking incredibly handsome in his rented tuxedo, a dark blue satin handkerchief artfully arranged in the left breast pocket, a yellow rosebud fastened to his lapel. Even the livid scar under the right angle of his jaw could not spoil the effect. The corner of his mouth turned up in a shy smile as he eyed her appreciatively.   
  
"Walter's a very lucky man," he murmured, his voice still a little husky. "He's getting a jewel beyond price. Are you ready?"  
  
"As ready as I'll ever be," Diane replied tremulously. "Let's go."  
  
Gary gave her a look of open concern as he looped her arm over the crook of his elbow. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Of course not," she laughed nervously. "I'm terrified! This is it! The day I've been looking forward to almost from the instant we first met. I'm finally going to become Mrs. Walter Beyeler, and I'm scared to death!"  
  
"Just keep telling yourself how much you love him," Gary suggested as he walked her to the entrance. "And how happy you're going to be together."  
  
"For how long?" Diane murmured shakily.  
  
"Sorry?" Gary asked, unsure of her question.  
  
"How long should I keep reminding myself?"  
  
"If you're lucky," Gary mused as the music swelled, "the rest of your life."  
  
**********  
  
Later, at the reception, Gary had to admit that everything had gone smoothly. So far. Diane and Walter were sharing the first waltz. As the dashing young groom swept his radiant bride into his arms, they floated across the dance floor as if nothing else in the world mattered but this one precious moment. Lost in the beauty, and the nostalgia, of the dance, Gary briefly lost track of time. When the music ended, he glanced at his watch, jerking himself back to reality with a start.  
  
Gary pulled his jacket open just enough to sneak another peek at the Paper. 'Tragedy Mars Nuptials.' A structural defect in the ceiling of the banquet hall was going to drop the weighty chandelier on one of the couples during the next waltz. Now, if he could just pick out Ed and Natalie Stearns!   
  
"You seem somewhat preoccupied. Anything I can help you with?"  
  
Startled, Gary turned to find Dr. Zimmerman standing almost at his elbow. The genial neurologist had been Walter's best man, which had pleased Diane to no end. Walter was a resident studying under the kindly physician.  
  
"I-I'm okay," Gary murmured distractedly. "Diane looks . . . sh-she's beautiful. Walter's a lucky man."  
  
"And you've helped to make this the happiest day of her life, so far," the doctor nodded. "She told me that, initially, she asked you to give her away so that you would have something to look forward to. Apparently, you were something of a mess when you came back from the West Coast. She was afraid that you'd been given too many challenges at once. You needed a goal."  
  
"She was right," Gary replied softly, his attention on the couples beginning to crowd the dance floor. "I was a mess. Becoming a hermit had its attractions at that point. Y-you wouldn't happen to know the Stearns, would you? Ed and Natalie?"  
  
Puzzled, Dr. Zimmerman scanned the room until he spotted the young intern and his wife.  
  
"The young man tripping over the feet of that tiny blonde," he said, pointing them out. "Why? Did you want an introduction?"  
  
"No time for that," Gary murmured as he cast a worried glance at the ceiling. He was sure he'd heard an ominous crack. "S'cuse me, Doc. Gotta run."  
  
With a loud cry that sent the other dancers scattering before him, Gary scooped the startled couple off their feet as the termite riddled support beam finally released its burden, sending the weighty chandelier crashing to the floor! The impetus of Gary's dive sent him and his burden crashing into the table holding some of the wedding presents. He felt an electric shock run up his right arm as his wrist struck one of the stout wooden legs. The impact also jarred the table enough to send a small bronze sculpture toppling . . . onto that same arm. Choking back an agonized yelp, Gary cradled his injured extremity to his chest as he helped the young woman to her feet. Her husband was assisting her from the other side, casting stunned glances toward the huge lighting fixture that now lay over a ten-foot radius of the hardwood floor.  
  
"Y-you two . . . okay?" Gary asked through teeth clenched in pain.  
  
"Fine, thanks to you," Ed replied after giving his wife a quick once over. "That thing woulda crushed us like bugs! What about you? Oh, man! You're hurt! Let me see."  
  
The young intern sat Gary down in a nearby chair as everyone crowded around, those that hadn't actually seen the amazing rescue, curious to know what had just happened. Dr. Zimmerman, Diane, and Walter pushed their way to his side, concern and alarm clearly written all over their faces. They got there just as Ed was carefully probing Gary's wrist. Gary bit back a choked cry as he felt something grate under that gentle touch. His face had lost all its color, and he was bathed in fine beads of sweat as he fought not to scream.  
  
"Th-that hurt," he admitted with a gasp. "Man, that hurts."  
  
"I think we'd better get you in for some x-rays," Ed observed with a glance at Dr. Zimmerman.  
  
"I concur," the older physician nodded. "At least one fracture. Possibly a crush injury to that hand. Diane, you and Walter see to your guests. Dr. Stearns and I can handle this."  
  
"Man," Gary groaned. "I just got rid of that blasted sling a week ago."  
  
"If it's any consolation," Dr. Zimmerman smiled, "you probably won't need a sling. How are you on casts, though?"  
  
************  
  
"Two bones in the hand," Dr. Stearns murmured as he looked at the most recent x-rays, "and a cracked ulna. You've broken those before, it looks like. But everything is healing nicely," he reported. "Another week or so and we can take that cast off. How does it feel? Still in a lot of pain?"  
  
"Not so much now," Gary sighed. He'd really hoped to be rid of the cast, but it had only been a little over a month. "Mostly it just itches."  
  
"You haven't been sticking anything down in there to scratch, have you?" Ed asked, his expression clearly saying that he considered that a bad idea.  
  
"A paint stirrer wrapped in some of those tissues with the lotion in them," Gary admitted. "I had to do something! It was driving me nuts!"  
  
"Well, you showed more sense than a lot of my patients," the young intern replied with a relieved grin. He looked up as Dr. Carter, who was supervising him this shift, came in with Gary's chart in his hand.   
  
"We're gonna have to see about getting you a seat on the board," John Carter murmured distractedly. "You've probably spent more time here than anyone else in the whole city. How's the shoulder?"  
  
"A little stiff," Gary replied with a shrug. "It's hard to do the therapy when I can't use my hand, but Mom and Dad help me with the resistance exercises. It's coming along."  
  
Carter nodded as he studied the radiologist's report. "Dr. Stearns has told you that you'll be stuck with that thing for another week or so?" He smiled at Gary's grumbled 'yeah.' "Good." He stepped up, tilting Gary's head to the left so that he could examine the scar under the taller man's jaw line. "You won't even notice this by that time. And the back? Any problems there?"  
  
"Not even a twinge," was the welcome response. "I'm back to jogging and doing the occasional wind sprints. Seriously, the back is fine."  
  
Carter flashed a penlight in first one eye, then the other. "No more headaches, trouble sleeping?"  
  
"An occasional nightmare," Gary sighed. "And I still have flashbacks now and then, but not as bad as they were. My therapy sessions are down to once a month." He held still as Carter gently probed his larynx. "No tenderness there, either. Honestly, Doc, except for the arm, I'm fine."  
  
"Whatever happened to the guy who tried to kill you?" Carter asked, noting Ed's startled look. This was the first the young intern had heard of it, apparently. "Wasn't he deported?"  
  
"No," Gary grinned. "He was offered a kind of community service or prison. He chose the first. He's now helping to build a new school in a little town just north of Fairbanks, Alaska. They didn't want him in the same part of the country as me. Elaine went with him, as his new wife. I got a letter from her last week . She says it's beautiful, and she may try to talk him into living up there permanently."  
  
"With five counts of attempted murder?" the young resident asked incredulously. "How'd he swing that?"  
  
Another shrug. "I think it impressed the judge when the victim, me, spoke up on his behalf," Gary ventured. "The judge had to set a few precedents, and bend a lot of rules, but he pulled it off. Mostly because he was being pressured by a county judge who remembered me from . . . well, he's the same judge who excused me from jury duty. Permanently. I-I think he just wanted me out of his courtroom as quickly as possible."  
  
Before either doctor could respond to that, a small, energetic whirlwind burst into the treatment room, clambering into Gary's lap and wrapping him in a tight hug.  
  
"GaryGaryGary!" a tiny voice squealed.  
  
"Elliot!" a woman's voice exclaimed in exasperation. A slender blonde woman came rushing in, tugging gently at the child's arms. "I told you to wait until we were sure!" She looked up at a pair of very confused mud puddle green eyes. "I don't even know if you remember us," she sighed. "You were little more than half dead at the time. We found you wrapped around my son in a snowdrift last December. You saved his life."  
  
Gary looked at the wriggling child in amazement. This was little Elliot? The child he had crawled through the snow to find? He vaguely recalled that desperate struggle. It had occurred during one of those 'low' periods he had told Brigatti about. He had checked into a flea trap of a motel on the outskirts of town to escape another scene with the fiery detective. Still trapped in that wheelchair, not really sure if he wanted to live or die, he had been called to duty by the Paper.   
  
"I do remember," he murmured, pulling the squirming child up into his lap with his good arm. "Elliot? I-it was . . . was just before Christmas, wasn't it?"  
  
"I was cold!" Elliot nodded. "Momma made me stay in bed and I missed Santa!"  
  
"But I'll bet Santa didn't forget you," Gary replied with a wistful grin. "Did you get lots of toys?"  
  
"A small mountain of them," Ed retorted with an indulgent smile of his own. "Gary, you've obviously met my nephew, Elliot Granger. This is my sister, Cassie. I had no idea you were the man who . . . Weren't you in a wheelchair?"  
  
"Um, yeah," Gary admitted, blushing. "I was . . . I-I'd just had a f-fight with . . . a-anyway, I'm just glad I was able to help."  
  
"Help!" Cassie exclaimed. "You saved my baby's life! When we got to my neighbor's house and she said Elliot wasn't . . . that the other children had taken him out to play . . . I'll never understand why she didn't make them go right back out and find him! Then when your heart stopped and I saw the look on your mother's face . . ."  
  
"Sounds like I just heard the highlights before," Dr. Stearns murmured in amazement.   
  
"Not even the tip of the iceberg," Carter chuckled. "Gary's had a rough year."  
  
"I-it was pretty bad sometimes," Gary shrugged, unable to take his eyes off the little boy who was fascinated by the cast. "A lot of good came out of it, though." He looked closely at something on the back of the child's neck. "Has he got some kinda allergy or something?" he murmured. "He's got some red spots on his neck here."  
  
"Let me see," Carter said. "He's been immunized, hasn't he?" he asked the mother as he pulled down the boy's collar.  
  
"We were on our way to get his boosters," she nodded.   
  
"Well, you can quit worrying about the chicken pox," John sighed. "He's got it. All over his back, from the looks of it."  
  
"Oh man," Ed winced in sympathy. "Poor little guy. We'd better fit him with some mittens or something to keep him from scratching."  
  
"Does it itch?" Gary asked. "It doesn't look all that bad."  
  
All three of the other adults turned to look at the man holding the infected child. Carter just closed his eyes, shaking his head with a sigh.  
  
"Gary, please tell me you've had this when you were a kid," he said.  
  
"Not that I know of," Gary shrugged. "Why? Is it contagious?"  
  
Carter just buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he tried to decide if he should laugh or cry. It could only happen to Gary.  
  
"I'll call upstairs for a room," Ed offered. "Cassie, you might want to admit Elliot, too. His system is still a little weak from that cold he had last week."  
  
"Admit . . ." Gary looked up at the three sympathetic faces, down to the child, then back to Carter. "Is it serious?"  
  
"Not usually, no," John assured him. "It'll be worse on you than him, I can promise you. He's young and he'll recover in less than a week, although we'll want to watch him because of a recent illness he had. You, on the other hand, will need to be watched for several days. And may have to be sedated from time to time."  
  
"Me! I'm not sick!" Gary protested.  
  
"You will be," Cassie assured him as she took the protesting child from his lap. "Trust me on this, dear. You will be."  
  
"W-wait!" he pleaded. "Let me call Mom. She'll be able to tell us for sure."  
  
Carter quickly agreed, having a cordless phone brought to the room and handed through the door. Until they were absolutely sure, there was no sense in taking chances.  
  
"Hi, Marissa," he murmured as soon as his partner answered the phone. "Did Jason get off to the airport okay? That's good. I wouldn't want him to get in Dutch with the General. Did Steve remember to pick up his dad and the others? Good. Um, is Mom around? C-could you put her on, please? Thanks." A short pause. "H-hi, Mom. Yeah, my arm is coming along fine. The cast has to stay on another week, though. Um, Mom? Do you happen to remember what childhood illnesses I've had? Measles. Mumps. The flu a couple of times. What about the . . . the Chicken Pox?" He winced as he held the phone away from his ear. Everyone in the room could clearly hear her wail.  
  
"Oh, Gary!"  
  
Dazed, Gary allowed himself to be stripped, scrubbed, and dressed in hospital pajamas and a face mask. He was then whisked off to Isolation, where he had several days to contemplate just how much trouble he could get into. Without even trying. On the plus side, they had promised to remove the cast before he was discharged.  
  
*fini*  
  
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